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ESTHETICS 


BY 


KATE    GORDON 


NEW    YORK 
HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1909, 

BY 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 
December,    ig22 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.  S.  A. 


PREFACE 

This  book  is  meant  for  college  students,  and  was 
written  to  serve  as  a  text-book  for  courses  in  esthetics 
such  as  are  given  in  the  third  or  fourth  year  of  the  college 
curriculum.  Its  first  object  is  to  give  to  students  a 
concise  statement  of  some  of  the  most  important  facts 
about  esthetic  experience  and  artistic  activity.  Its 
second  purpose  is  to  stimulate,  among  students,  some 
interest  in  the  experimental  treatment  of  esthetic  prob- 
lems. The  references  at  the  end  of  the  several  chapters 
are  offered,  not  as  an  attempt  at  a  complete  bibliography, 
but  as  suggestions  for  fuller  reading. 

My  obligations  are,  I  hope,  apparent  in  the  text,  but 
it  is  a  pleasure  to  make  special  acknowledgments  to 
Professor  John  Dewey  for  the  general  standpoint  adopted 
in  this  book,  also  to  Professor  James  R.  Angell  and 
Professor  James  H.  Tufts,  and  to  my  father  for  help  of 
various  kinds. 

K.   G. 

August,  1909. 


CONTENTS 


CHAP.  PAGB 

I.   Introduction i 

II.   Imagination 8 

III.  Feeling 2S 

IV.  Origins  and  Functions  of  Art 46" 

V.    Rhythm 68- 

VI.   The  Dance  .  - 84 

VII.   Music 105 

VIII.   Color 141 

IX.   The  Character  of  Simple  Lines  and  Forms 160 

X.   Some  Principles  of  Design 176 

XI.    Architecture 195 

XII.   Sculpture 213 

XIII.  Painting 228 

XIV.  Language  as  an  Art  Medium 243 

XV.   Poetry 248 

XVI.   The  Drama 272 

XVII.   Prose  Forms 284 

XVIII.   General  Conception  of  Beauty  and  Art 295 

Index 311 


ESTHETICS 

CHAPTER   I 

INTRODUCTION 

A  Definition  of  Esthetics.  If  a  number  of  different 
objects  are  to  be  put  into  the  same  class,  this  must  be 
done  on  the  basis  of  some  common  quality  which  every 
one  of  them  possesses.  What,  then,  can  be  the  common 
quality  by  virtue  of  which  one  ever  classes  together 
things  so  diverse  as  a  tragedy  and  a  comedy,  a  gem  and 
a  cathedral,  a  song  and  a  picture?  Suppose  we  say 
that  all  these  are  alike  in  being  beautiful.  Then  the 
question  is,  what  is  this  quality  of  beauty,  if  it  may  or 
may  not  be  visible,  may  or  may  not  be  audible,  may 
or  may  not  consist  in  the  grace  of  well-ordered  language  ? 
Our  answer  must  be  that  beauty  depends  upon  the 
taste  of  the  person  who  observes  the  work  of  art  as 
much  as  upon  the  work  itself,  and  that  the  cathedral, 
the  gem,  the  symphony,  etc.,  are  alike  in  having  some 
peculiar  effect  upon  the  feelings  of  the  person  who  appre- 
ciates them.  There  are,  in  general,  two  ways  of  regard- 
ing a  work  of  art:  one  of  these  is  from  the  point  of  view 
of  the  amateur  who  admires  but  does  not  practise  art, 
and  the  other  is  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  artist  or 
producer.  It  is  the  business  of  esthetics  to  examine 
both  of  these  kinds  of  consciousness.  Subjectively, 
esthetics  is  the  science  of  the  feelings  which  are    con- 


2  INTRODUCTION 

cerned  in  the  production  and  appreciation  of  beautiful 
things.  Objectively,  it  is  the  analysis  and  classifica- 
tion of  the  beautiful  objects  which  occasion  those 
feelings. 

Relationship  to  Art  and  Science.  Esthetics  has  for 
its  subject-matter  the  beauty  both  of  art  and  of  nature, 
but  the  more  important  of  the  two  is  the  beauty  of  art. 
We  shall  see  that  the  appreciation  of  nature  is  derived 
from  the  appreciation  of  human  art  products,  and  that 
nature  by  itself  lacks  the  element  of  personal  expres.- 
sion,  which  is  important  in  the  esthetic  experience. 
Besides,  natural  beauty  is  less  susceptible  of  experi- 
mental management  than  the  work  of  art  and  hence 
less  fruitful  for  the  observer.  Although,  therefore,  the 
beauty  of  nature  is  not  to  be  excluded  from  esthetics, 
the  work  of  art  is  the  principal  theme.  Esthetics 
is  a  science  because  it  pursues  the  methods  of  science: 
the  esthetician  gathers  specimens,  observes  and  com- 
pares them,  classifies  and  tries  to  explain;  when  possible 
he  examines  them  under  conditions  of  control.  The 
worker  in  esthetics  has  for  his  specimens  emotional 
experiences,  and  judgments  of  "beautiful"  and  "not 
beautiful."  He  observes  the  person  who  makes  the 
judgment,  observes  the  object  about  which  it  is  made, 
notices  attendant  circumstances.  He  compares  the 
judgment  of  other  persons  on  the  same  object,  and  of 
the  same  person  on  other  objects;  varies  one  by  one 
the  characteristics  of  the  object,  takes  the  subject  in  a 
variety  of  moods,  and  when  he  is  able  to  find  a  con- 
stant result  of  any  kind,  there  he  has  the  rudiments  of 
an  esthetic  law. 


ESTHETICS    AND    CRITICISM  3 

Esthetics  and  Criticism.  Criticism  is  the  act  of  pass- 
ing judgment,  and  it  implies  the  possession  of  a  standard 
or  test  of  beauty  by  which  one  knows  or  feels  that  a 
given  work  is  good  or  bad.  There  is  common  ground, 
therefore,  between  criticism  and  esthetics,  since  both 
tell  us  about  art  products,  whether  they  are  good  and 
why.  The  difference  between  the  two  fields  would 
seem  to  lie  in  the  greater  attention  which  esthetics  gives 
to  the  discovery  and  formulation  of^ the  stanxiard.  The 
finding  of  general  laws  and  building  of  theories  of 
beauty  is  the  afi"air  of  esthetics;  whereas  the  tracing  out 
of  these  laws  in  their  application  to  particular  works  of 
art  is  more  the  province  of  criticism.  Criticism  may^ 
be  called  the  esthetics  of  particular  cases.  Criticism 
is  sometimes  itself  a  work  of  art:  thus  in  Keats's 
famous  sonnet  on  Chapman's  Homer  we  find  esthetic 
criticism  to  be  a  piece  of  creative  art. 

Esthetics  and  Psychology.  Psychology  is  the  science 
of  mental  processes  as  such.  Among  these  processes 
are  affections,  feelings,  emotions  and  moods,  and  cer- 
tain of  these  have  to  do  with  objects  of  beauty.  The 
science  which  deals  with  these  latter  processes  and  the 
conditions  of  their  arousal  may  be  considered  a  part 
of  the  larger  science  of  psychology.  We  shall  regard 
the  esthetician  as  a  psychologist  who  limits  his  attention 
to  one  branch  of  his  subject  and  so  finds  time  to 
investigate  that  part  more  elaborately;  and  shall  treat 
esthetics  as  a  branch  of  an  advanced  psychology. 

Is  Esthetics  a  "  Normative  Science  "  ?  A  norm  is  a 
rule  or  standard  to  go  by.  It  is  quite  common  to  say 
that  there  are  two  kinds  of  science,  positive  and  norma- 


4  INTRODUCTION 

tive,  and  that  a  positive  science  tells  us  merely  the 
nature  of  things,  what  they  are;  whereas  a  normative 
science  tells  us  also  what  things  ought  to  be.  Not 
content  with  the  real,  the  normative  doctrine  points  out 
the  ideal  state  of  things.  Thus  we  hear  that  psychology 
is  a  science  which  analyzes  mental  life  as  it  finds  it,  not 
caring  whether  the  mental  processes  are  good  or  bad, 
rational  or  irrational,  beautiful  or  ugly.  But  logic,  we 
are  told,  distinguishes  a  false  judgment  from  a  true  one, 
and  shows  the  laws  of  right  reason;  ethics  shows  people 
what  their  acts  should  be;  and  esthetics  points  out  the 
proper  exercise  of  taste,  and  tells  us  what  we  ought  to 
find  beautiful.  Now  I  believe  it  to  be  true  that  logic, 
ethics  and  esthetics  are  in  a  sense  prescriptive,  that  they 
do  help  us  in  our  thinking,  our  acting  and  our  feeling, 
and  it  is  certain  that  they  attempt  to  set  up  standards  or 
norms;  but  I  cannot  see  that  this  is  a  point  in  which 
they  differ  from  other  sciences.  Every  science  tries  to 
establish  a  norm.  Psychology  is  at  work  determining  a 
"normal"  human  mind.  (Even  in  abnormal  psychol- 
ogy there  are  recognized  types  or  norms.)  A  knowledge 
of  chemistry  or  biology  or  even  mathematics  is  the 
knowledge  of  what  one  "ought"  to  do  in  order  to  get 
results  in  these  fields.  To  stimulate  circulation  you 
"should"  apply  alcohol  in  the  blood;  to  get  the  circum- 
ference of  a  circle  you  "ought"  to  multiply  2-r.  From 
this  it  would  seem  that  positive  science  is  also  normative. 
It  is  just  as  true  that  normative  science  is  positive. 
Ethics  cannot  tell  in  each  particular  case  what  a  person 
ought  to  do;  it  can  only  heap  up  instances  of  action 
which,   in  the  past,   people   have  thought  to  be  good. 


PURPOSE   AND    METHODS    OF    ESTHETICS  5 

Logic  cannot  tell  just  what  conclusion  you  must  draw 
from  certain  present  circumstances,  but  it  can  show  in 
what  way  valid  and  useful  inferences  have  been  drawn 
from  given  data  in  the  past.  Esthetics  cannot  tell  pre- 
cisely which  brush-strokes  will  produce  the  picture  that 
shall  transcend  all  others,  but  it  can  classify  and  record 
the  elements  of  beauty  in  works  of  art  already  produced. 
Esthetics,  in  other  words,  is  just  as  practical  or  norma- 
tive as  other  sciences,  but  no  more  so. 

Purpose  of  Esthetics.  To  many  persons  it  seems  a 
simple  thing  to  know  what  they  like.  They  say:  "I 
don't  know  anything  about  art,  but  I  know  what  I 
like."  This  is  a  great  mistake.  People  know  very 
little  about  their  own  tastes,  and  are  as  often  as  not 
disappointed  when  they  get  what  they  thought  they 
wanted.  The  chief  purpose  of  esthetics  is  to  help  us  to 
clarify  and  to  become  conscious  of  our  own  tastes. 

Methods.  The  methods  of  esthetics  are  the  methods 
of  psychology,  namely,  obsex:^ation,  intro^ection  and 
experiment.  Up  to  recent  years  observation  and 
introspection  have  been  the  ones  chiefly  relied  upon. 
Observation  may  be  regarded  as  the  objective  method; 
it  is  applicable  both  to  the  work  of  art  itself  and  to  the 
person  enjoying  it.  Thus  we  may  note  the  facial  expres- 
sion, the  posture  and  gestures  of  the  one  who  sees  or 
hears  something  beautiful.  Or,  again,  just  as  in  psy- 
chology one  way  of  arriving  at  the  laws  of  memory  is  to 
observe  what  things  are  remembered  (the  recent,  the 
frequent,  the  vivid,  etc.),  so  we  learn  something  of  the 
laws  of  beauty  by  observing  the  things  that  are  accepted 
as  beautiful.     Under  this  method  comes  the  study  of  the 


6  INTRODUCTION 

history  of  art  and  the  evolution  of  its  forms.  Introspec- 
tion is  the  subjective  method.  This  must  tell  what  it 
feels  like  to  fmd  a  thing  beautiful,  and  also  what  the 
mental  process  of  artistic  creation  is.  Experiment  is 
introspection  and  observation  under  controlled  condi- 
tions. Some  writers  have  distinguished  experimental 
methods,  as  applied  to  the  feelings,  into  two  main 
classes,  which  they  call  methods  of  "impression"  and 
of  "expression."  In  "impression"  the  ingenuity  of  the 
experimenter  is  directed  upon  analyzing  and  ordering 
the  material  to  be  presented.  The  result  of  the  experi- 
ment is  the  mental  state  of  the  subject,  usually  reported 
in  the  judgment  "pleasant"  or  "unpleasant,"  and  in  an 
introspective  account  given  by  the  subject.  In  "expres- 
sion" the  experimenter  starts  with  the  mental  state  of 
pleasant  or  unpleasant,  using  a  known  and  constant 
stimulus,  and  directs  his  attention  tov/ard  the  exact 
outcome,  usually  in  physiological  terms,  of  this  state  of 
mind.  Progress  in  the  development  of  esthetics  as  a 
science  will  mean  an  ever- widening  application  of  ex- 
periment to  the  problems  of  esthetics. 

Plan  of  Study.  In  the  study  of  art  one  is  perpetually 
discriminating  two  phases  of  every  art  product,  namely, 
feeling  and  form.  The  production  of  a  work  of  art  is  a 
progress  "from  emotion  to  form"  ;  it  is  the  discovery  and 
arrangement  of  images  which  shall  express  and  convey 
feeling.  The  appreciation  of  art  is  a  process  of  appro- 
priating emotion  through  the  medium  of  the  artistic 
image  or  form.  To  produce,  one  must  have  feehng  and 
imagination,  and,  to  appreciate,  one  must  have  imagina- 
tion and  feeling.     The  plan  of  the  present  book  is  to 


PLAN    OF  STUDY  7 

plunge  at  once  into  a  psychological  statement  about 
feeling  and  imagination,  and  then  to  go  on  with  a 
discussion  of  the  origins  and  functions  of  art,  and  to 
the  consideration  of  the  esthetics  of  the  special  fields  of 
art. 


CHAPTER    II 

IMAGINATION 

Definition.  Imagination  is  the  consciousness  of  objects 
or  of  qualities  which  have  no  present  sensory  stimulus 
to  excite  them  in  the  mind.  Images  depend,  however, 
upon  previous  sensory  stimulation.  We  could  never 
get  an  image  of  any  simple  quality  of  which  we  had 
never  had  a  sensation,  but,  the  sensation  once  expe- 
rienced, we  are  able  afterward  to  think  it  without  a 
stimulus  present  to  sense.  So  far  as  elementary  quali- 
ties are  concerned  imagination  is  merely  a  reproductive 
function;  it  never  invents.  But  so  far  as  objects  or 
complexes  of  sensations  are  concerned,  imagination  may 
be  reproductive  or  productive.  It  is  reproductive  when 
the  image  is  a  faithful  copy  of  an  old  experience;  it  is 
productive  or  creative  when  the  image  is  a  rearrange- 
ment of  the  old  material  in  new  forms.  The  term 
''image"  means,  outside  of  psychology,  a  visible  like- 
ness —  as  a  statue  or  a  photograph  is  said  to  be  the 
image  of  a  person — but  in  psychology  the  mental 
image  is  not  confined  to  visual  likenesses;  it  stands  for 
as  many  kinds  of  likeness  as  there  are  kinds  of  sensation. 
Hence  we  have  auditory  images,  touch  images,  taste 
images,  etc.  Images  differ  widely,  not  only  in  sensory 
quality,  but  in  clearness,  accuracy,  and  amenability  to 
control. 

8 


VISUAL   IMAGINATION  9 

Visual  Imagination.  The  power  of  visualizing  or 
producing  mental  pictures  varies  immensely  in  different 
individuals,  and  often  in  tlie  same  person  at  different 
times.  Occasionally  an  image  is  so  complete  and  vivid 
as  to  rival  a  sense-perception,  and  in  this  event  one  has 
an  hallucination.  Normally,  however,  images  are  less 
perfect,  and  are  easily  distinguished  from  sense  experi- 
ence. First  class  visualizcrs  call  up  past  scenes 
or  imagine  new  ones,  with  great  distinctness.  The 
form  and  the  details  of  objects,  their  illumination  and 
coloring,  are  very  precisely  rendered,  and  it  is  possible 
for  such  persons,  if  they  have  skill  in  drawing,  to  sketch 
from  the  memory-image  a  fairly  good  likeness  of  the 
thing  which  the  image  represents.  Persons  with  mod- 
erate powers  of  visualizing  find  that  a  scene  is  fairly 
well  presented,  but  that  one  or  two  elements  are  clearer 
than  the  rest,  the  others  improving  as  attention  is  paid 
to  them.  Finally,  some  persons  have  very  dim  and 
inadequate  pictures,  and  some  have  none  at  all. 

People  are  said  to  be  of  the  visual  type  if  they  employ 
visual  images  to  a  greater  extent  than  they  do  auditory, 
tactile  or  other  kinds.  Having  a  visual  mind  does  not 
necessarily  mean  that  one  has  exceptional  eyesight  — 
one's  eyes  may  be  less  good  than  the  average  —  but  it 
means  attending  to  what  one  sees  rather  than  to  what 
one  hears,  touches,  etc.,  and  doing  one's  thinking  by 
means  of  the  material  gained  through  the  eyes.  Some 
persons  when  they  listen  to  a  spoken  discourse  first  have 
to  turn  the  words  into  verbal  pictures,  and  then  grasp 
the  meaning  from  the  mentally  seen  words.  Others 
find  that  certain  words,  syllables,  or  tone-relationships 


lO  IMAGINATION 

always  suggest  colors  or  spatial  forms.  In  general  it  is 
said  that  scientific  and  philosophic  minds  are  poor  in 
visualizing,  but  that  mechanicians,  architects,  and  artists 
are  good  at  it.  Women  and  children,  as  a  rule,  excel 
men. 

In  esthetics  I  think  we  may  speak  of  one  as  having  a 
visual  temperament  if  one  has  a  liking  for  visual  imagery, 
and  a  tendency  to  explain  other  experiences  by  it  or  to 
translate  them  into  it.  Ribot  gives  these  quotations  as 
illustrative  of  a  mind  which  transposes  sound  images 
into  visual  and  motor  terms:  "The  ruffles  of  sound 
thai  the  piper  cuts  out,"  and  "The  flute  goes  up  to  alto 
like  a  frail  capital  on  a  column."  In  Shelley's  "Sky- 
lark" is  this  interesting  figure: 

AH  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare. 
From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

Visual  imagination  may  be  distinguished  into  several 
varieties  according  to  the  aspect  or  the  nature  of  the 
visual  impressions  which  are  remembered.  One  person 
may  be  more  attracted  by  the  motion  of  objects,  and 
another  by  the  static  appearance,  form,  color,  illumina- 
tion. An  imagination  made  up  of  the  appearance  of 
movements  would  be  stored  with  gestures,  glances,  atti- 
tudes, etc.,  as  well  as  the  motions  of  natural  objects.  It 
would  no  doubt  have  something  in  common  with  the 
motor  type  of  which  we  shall  speak  later,  only  in  the 
present  case  the  images  have  to  do  solely  with  the  visual 


VISUAL   IMAGINATION  II 

aspect  of  movement.  Such  a  mind  would  be  apt  for  the 
arrangement  of  dramatic  effects. 

An  imagination  concerned  with  forms,  masses,  lights 
and  colors,  the  static  aspect  of  things,  is  more  purely 
pictorial.  It  is  an  interesting  point  to  notice  that  not 
all  painters  have  the  truly  pictorial  quality  of  imagination. 
Many  pictures  have  a  literary,  or,  rather,  a  narrative  char- 
acter. They  tell  a  story  or  suggest  a  sequence  of  events, 
and  so  depend  for  their  interest  upon  other  things  than 
form  and  color,  upon  things  which  cannot  be  really 
represented  by  brush  and  paint  at  all.  A  picture  cannot 
actually  present  the  passage  of  time,  and  we  should  never 
demand  that  it  suggest  a  sequence  of  events,  as  in  a  story. 
It  is  enough  if  a  picture  gives  the  effect  of  color  upon 
color,  the  relationship  of  line  to  line,  or  shows  the  merely 
present  appearance  of  some  human  form;  for  these  are 
visual  stories  of  the  most  dehghtful  kind.  Professor 
Van  Dyke  ^  has  observed  that  Millet's  "  Angelus"  is  not 
a  strictly  pictorial  conception,  for  it  "leans  very  heavily 
on  our  exterior  knowledge  of  bcll-ringing  at  sunset  in 
France."  And  he  says  also:  "Whether  an  idea  is  pic- 
torial or  not  may  be  tested  in  the  first  place  by  questioning 
if  it  will  exist  of  itself  and  without  a  title."  Pale  yellow, 
bright  scarlet,  and  dusky  blue,  these  do  not  require  a 
title;  sweeping  lines  and  delicate  shading  are  sufficient 
theme  for  a  picture;  and,  unless  a  person  delights  in  mass 
and  line  and  color  for  themselves,  his  temperament  is  not, 
strictly  speaking,  a  visual  one. 

Auditory  Imagination.  Persons  of  the  auditory  type 
do  their  remembering  and  thinking  in  terms  of  sound. 

^  "Art  for  Art's  Sake."     Lecture  i. 


12  IMAGINATION 

Their  image  of  an  acquaintance  is  not  the  look  of  his  face, 
but  is  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Their  idea  of  a  violin  is  its 
timbre  rather  than  its  form  or  color.  "  Audiles, "  as  they 
read  a  printed  page,  seem  to  hear  the  words  sounding  in 
their  ears  as  if  spoken  by  a  voice,  and  in  this  way  they 
get  the  full  significance  of  what  they  read.  Dr.  Lay^ 
writes:  "I  find  the  auditory  mental  imagery  in  my  case 
to  be  almost  as  important  a  factor  in  my  mental  life  as  is 
the  visual,  being  a  mental  reproduction  of  the  sounds  I 
have  heard  —  musical  or  otherwise.  They  are  comparable 
with  real  sounds,  not  so  much  in  intensity,  but  perfectly 
with  timbre,  pitch  and  duration.  I  can  estimate  a  minute 
with  much  greater  exactness  mentally  if  I  listen  to  the 
auditory  mental  imagery  of  a  piece  of  music  which  takes 
about  a  minute  to  perform." 

It  is  believed  by  some  writers  that  auditory  stimuli  are 
more  closely  associated  with  the  emotions  than  visual 
stimuli  are.  Music  is  constantly  spoken  of  in  esthetic 
treatises  as  being  more  indicative  of  mood  and  sentiment; 
it  is  said  to  be  more  subjective  than  the  visual  arts,  and  is 
generally  held  to  be  the  most  emotional  of  all  arts.  But 
we  have  to  remember  that  music  is  not  merely  auditory, 
and  that  the  tonal  part  of  it,  i.e.,  that  which  is  distinc- 
tively the  affair  of  the  ear,  is  probably  less  important  than 
the  rhythmic,  which  is  not  a  distinctively  auditory  ex- 
perience. If  it  could  be  shown  that  auditory  rhythms 
are  more  "moving"  than  visual  rhythms,  that  would  be 
evidence  in  favor  of  the  theory;  but  Miner,  who  has 
worked  with  rhythmical  flashes  of  light,  asserts  that  these 
visual  stimuli  are  just  as  stirring  an  incentive  to  move- 

'  "Mental  Imagery." 


AUDITORY   IMAGINATION  1 3 

ment  as  sound  rhythms  arc.  Concerning  the  effect  of 
non-musical  sounds,  we  may  mention  these  few  facts: 
Young  children  are  more  afraid  of  strange  noises  than  of 
strange  visual  impressions.  Also,  in  a  thunder-storm, 
many  grown  persons,  even,  have  more  real  feeling  about 
the  sound  of  the  thunder  than  about  the  sight  of  the 
lightning.  One  of  my  correspondents  relates  this  bit  of 
experience,  which  has  a  bearing  on  the  point:  "I  was 
dissecting  a  young  pig.  It  was  an  unaccustomed  occu- 
pation and  somewhat  unj)lcasant,  but  the  distressing 
element  was  not  so  much  the  sight  of  the  animal,  nor 
even  the  way  it  felt  to  my  fingers,  as  it  was  the  sound  of 
the  scissors  snipping  through  the  skin.  Of  course,  in 
a  way,  it  was  the  idea  of  the  cutting  which  was  disagree- 
able, but  still  it  was  the  sound  and  not  the  sight  or  touch 
which  seemed  to  give  the  feeling.  Whenever  I  think  of 
the  occasion  the  same  feeling  seems  to  come  up  in  connec- 
tion with  my  memory  of  that  muffled  snipping  sound." 
It  has  also  been  pointed  out  in  support  of  the  emotional 
nature  of  sound  that  the  cerebral  connection  is  closer 
between  centers  of  hearing  and  centers  of  movement  than 
between  centers  of  vision  and  centers  of  movement;  and 
that  the  reflex  centers  of  hearing  are  closer  than  those  of 
vision  to  the  nerves  which  govern  circulatory  changes. 
Notwithstanding  these  facts  I  doubt  whether  one  is  justi- 
fied in  the  unqualified  statement  that  auditory  impressions 
are  more  emotional  than  visual  impressions.  Some  al- 
lowance should  be  made  for  differences  in  mental  type. 
It  seems  to  me  fair  to  say  that,  for  a  person  of  visual 
temperament,  emotion  centers  around  visual  sensations 
and  images,  and  that,  for  a  person  of  the  auditory  type, 


14  IMAGINATION 

emotion  is  more  closely  allied  with  auditory  sensations  and 
'  images. 

For  the  audile  mind  it  is  the  sonorous  quality  of  exper- 
ience that  is  attended  to  and  retained.  The  expression 
which  such  a  mind  naturally  seeks  is  music,  or  lan- 
guage addressed  to  the  ear.  It  is  said*  of  Schumann: 
"From  the  age  of  eight,  he  would  amuse  himself  with 
sketching  what  might  be  called  musical  portraits,  draw- 
ing by  means  of  various  turns  of  song  and  varied  rhythms 
the  shades  of  character,  and  even  the  physical  peculiari- 
ties, of  his  young  comrades.  He  sometimes  succeeded  in 
making  such  striking  resemblances  that  all  would  recog- 
nize, with  no  further  designation,  the  figure  indicated." 
The  two  great  varieties  of  auditory  imagination  in  the 
realm  of  art  are  the  musical  and  the  poetical.  The  fol- 
lowing verses  from  Beattie  are  a  good  example  of  audi- 
tory imagination;  every  line  suggests  an  image  of  sound: 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain-side; 
The  lowing  herd;  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell; 
The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean  tide; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark; 
Crowned  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings; 
The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield;  and  hark! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings; 
Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs; 

'  Quoted  by  Ribot,  "  Essay  on  the  Creative  Imagination." 


MOTOR    IMAGINATION  1$ 

Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the  drowsy  hour; 
The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower, 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 

Motor  Imagination.  Persons  of  the  motor  type  do 
their  thinking  in  terms  of  images  derived  from  move- 
ments. Our  experience  of  movement  is  made  up  of  sen- 
sations from  muscles,  tendons,  joints,  and  skin,  and,  since 
these  are  pretty  constant  elements  in  all  perce])tions,  es- 
pecially the  perceptions  of  sight  and  touch,  the  motor 
imagination  should  be  richly  supplied.  A  motor  or 
"  motile  "  mind  would  think  of  a  picture  in  terms  of  the 
movements  necessary  in  drawing  it  or  in  imitating  its 
lines.  The  idea  of  marching  or  running  would  mean, 
not  a  picture  of  the  act,  nor  the  sound  of  the  regular 
tread,  but  the  feel  of  it  in  one's  own  legs.  The  memory  of 
any  act  would  be  the  memory  of  tension,  the  feeling  of  the 
twisting,  pushing,  and  pulling  in  the  parts  of  the  body 
involved  in  the  act.  Helen  Keller's  imagination  is 
largely  motor  and  tactile;  she  says  that  the  act  of  shaking 
hands  gives  her  the  impression  of  a  friend's  character, 
and  she  remembers  the  character  in  those  terms  (i.e., 
motor  and  tactile  ones).  Professional  athletes  and 
dancers  probal^ly  do  ^  good  deal  of  their  thinking  m 
motor  images.  Bain  says,^  discussing  muscular  ideas: 
"  Take  first  the  memory  of  feelings  of  energetic  action, 
as  when  reviving  the  exploits  or  exertions  of  yesterday. 
It  is  a  notorious  circumstance  that,  if  there  be  much 
excitement  attending  the  recollection  of  these,  we  can 
only  with  great  difficulty  prevent  ourselves  from  getting 

»  "  The  Senses  and  the  Intellect,"  p.  339,  3rd  ed. 


1 6  IMAGINATION 

up  to  repeat  them.  The  rush  of  feeling  has  gone  on 
the  old  tracks,  and  seizes  the  same  muscles.  ...  A  dog 
dreaming  sets  his  feet  a-going,  and  sometimes  barks." 
And  again:  "  Thinking  (in  motor  terms)  is  restrained 
speaking  or  acting." 

Verbal  Imagination.  Before  going  on  to  the  images 
of  the  lower  senses,  it  will  be  in  place  to  speak  of  verbal 
images,  as  they  come  under  the  head  of  the  three  types 
just  considered.  Words  are  the  indispensable  symbols 
which  assist  most  of  our  consecutive  thought,  and  all  of 
it  that  is  very  abstract  and  complex.  A  word-image  may 
be  either  visual,  auditory  or  motor,  since  language  is  both 
seen,  heard,  spoken  and  written.  The  facts  of  aphasia 
and  of  agraphia  have  brought  it  out  that  the  "  cue  "  to 
speech  and  to  written  words  is  visual  with  some  persons, 
auditory  with  others,  and  mojor  with  yet  others.  It  is 
not  uncommon,  either,  for  one  to  use  a  mixture  of  the 
three.  Bain's^  description  of  the  motor  speech-image  is 
often  quoted.  "  When  we  recall  the  impression  of  a 
word  or  a  sentence,  if  we  do  not  speak  it  out,  we  feel 
the  twitter  of  the  organs  just  about  to  come  to  that  point. 
The  articulating  parts,  —  the  larynx,  the  tongue,  the  lips, 
— are  all  sensibly  excited;  a  suppressed  articulation  is  in 
fact  the  material  of  our  recollection,  the  intellectual  man- 
ifestation, the  idea  of  speech."  A  way  of  testing  the 
presence  of  a  motor  word-image  is  to  open  the  mouth 
wide  and  then  try  to  think  words  like  bubble  and  mumble. 
If  this  performance  interferes  with  thinking  the  words 
clearly,  then  the  images  are  probably  motor.  Verbal 
imagination  may  be  divided  into  different  kinds,  accord- 

*  Loc.  cit. 


IMAGES    FROM   LOWER  SENSES  1 7 

mg  to  the  literary  quality  of  remembered  words  and 
phrases,  as  dramatic,  lyric,  philosophic,  and  also  accord- 
ing to  differences  of  individual  style. 

Images  from  Other  Senses.  With  some  persons  the 
imagery  of  smell  plays  a  very  important  part,  charac- 
teristic odors  being  associated  with  many  objects  and 
localities  which  to  the  ordinary  observer  have  no  per- 
ceptible odor.  This  type  is  uncommon  and  even  perhaps 
abnormal.  There  remain  to  be  mentioned  the  images 
of  warmth,  cold,  pain,  passive  touch,  of  taste  and  of 
organic  sensations.  None  of  these  latter  play  the  im- 
portant role  in  our  thinking  which  the  visual,  auditory, 
and  motor  images  do,  but  when  they  are  present 
they  contribute  very  materially  to  the  vividness  of  our 
reflections. 

Affective  Images.  Is  there  such  a  thing  as  an  image 
of  an  affection  or  emotion  ?  Ribot  thinks  there  is.  He 
maintains  that  there  is  an  affective  as  well  as  a  cognitive 
memory,  and  hence  an  affective  as  well  as  a  cognitive 
imagination.  The  dissenting  view  would  be  this:  we 
remember  or  imagine  the  fact  that  we  were  pleased  or 
♦  sorry  or  afraid,  but  this  is  merely  a  cognitive  act,  and,  if 
we  were  actually  to  reinstate  or  produce  the  feeling  itself, 
we  should  have,  not  a  memory-image,  but  a  fresh  new 
feeling  which  would  be  on  par  with  a  new  percept  in  the 
cognitive  field. 

Which  Are  the  Esthetic  Senses?  Hegel  said  that  in  art 
the  idea  must  be  manifest  to  sense,  and  the  kinds  of 
sense  which  he  appears  to  have  had  in  mind  are  the 
visual  and  the  auditory.  Must  we  take  this  to  mean  that 
the  other  senses  have  no  part  at  all  in  esthetic  experience  ? 


1 8  IMAGINATION 

If  we  name  over  the  various  arts  and  skills  which  appeal 
to  the  different  senses,  we  find  that  there  are:  (i)  for 
vision:  architecture,  sculpture,  painting,  decorative  arts, 
arts  of  acting  and  of  dancing;  (2)  for  hearing:  music, 
poetry,  oratory;  (3)  for  smell:  perfumery;  (4)  for  taste: 
cookery;  (5)  for  touch  and  the  muscle  sense:  dancing 
and  gymnastics.  Out  of  this  list  we  see  that  it  is  only  the 
arts  which  appeal  to  the  eye  and  ear  (dancing,  only  in  its 
visual  aspect)  that  are  recognized  as  esthetic.  Allowing, 
however,  that  the  beautiful  or  esthetic  object  must  be 
something  which  makes  a  direct  appeal  to  the  eye  or  ear 
—  that  it  is  primarily  either  visible  or  audible  —  we  may 
still  insist  that  the  other  senses  are  often  involved  in 
furnishing  attendant  imagery  to  the  esthetic  conscious- 
ness As  elements  of  beauty,  we  often  speak  of  warmth, 
coolness,  softness  of  a  color;  sweetness  of  a  tone;  smooth- 
ness, strength,  vigor,  elasticity  in  line.  Of  course  these 
terms  are  metaphors,  but  the  qualities  which  they  refer  to 
call  up  imagery  of  the  cutaneous,  gustatory  and  muscular 
kinds.  Again,  our  motor  apparatus  is  ''  taken  in"  by  the 
rhythms  and  tempos  in  music;  and  the  stimulation  to 
movement  often  makes  up  the  larger  part  of  the  enjoyment 
both  of  music  and  the  visual  arts.  Finally,  we  may  argue 
that  esthetic  consciousness  includes  organic  sensations 
when  it  includes  strong  emotion.  The  beautiful  object, 
then,  does  make  a  reference  to  other  than  the  visual  and 
auditory  senses;  the  imagery  of  these  other  senses  is  pres- 
ent as  a  fringe,  a  background,  or  a  cloud  of  associations. 
Indeed,  the  more  senses  there  are  involved  in  observing 
the  object,  the  more  the  subject  is  absorbed  in  the  object 
(one  of  the  criteria  of  esthetic  feeling).     If  the  sensuous 


IMAGE   AND    IDEA  I9 

appeal  is  profound  and  elaborate,  we  are  all  the  more 
captured  by  the  work  of  art. 

Image  and  Idea.  That  which  an  artist  has  to  convey 
is  sometimes  referred  to  as  his  "  idea,"  to  distinguish  it 
from  the  exact  form  which  he  adopts  as  its  vehicle.  It 
would  be  better  perhaps  to  call  it  his  meaning  or  "  emo- 
tional theme".  Now,  ideas  and  emotional  themes  never 
appear  in  consciousness  without  some  kind  of  sensuous 
accompaniment  or  label  attached  to  them.  This  sensu- 
ous accompaniment  is  the  image,  it  is  the  stuff  or  filling, 
the  visual,  auditory,  tactile  quality  or  aspect  of  con- 
sciousness; whereas  the  idea  or  theme  is  that  for  which  the 
image  stands,  is  its  meaning  or  signification. 

Logical  Function  of  the  Image.  For  logical  and 
practical  purposes,  mental  images  are  merely  means  to 
some  further  end,  and  the  precise  look  or  sound  of 
them  is  less  important  than  the  precise  meaning.  The 
same  piece  of  work  may  be  done,  or  the  same  logical 
conclusion  reasoned  out,  by  quite  different  sorts  of  mental 
imagery.  In  a  quotation  given  above.  Dr.  Lay  says  that 
he  can  estimate  a  minute  if  he  imagines  a  piece  of  music, 
•about  a  minute  in  length,  being  played.  Another  person 
might  be  able  to  estimate  a  minute  by  imagining  himself 
walking  a  certain  distance.  In  these  two  cases  the  same 
piece  of  work  is  performed  —  estimating  an  interval.  This 
practical  accomplishment  can  also  be  expressed  in  the 
form  of  a  logical  conclusion.  Dr.  Lay's  reasoning 
would  be  like  this:  "This  piece  of  music  takes  a  minute 
to  play.  I  have  now  mentally  heard  it  played  through. 
Therefore  a  minute  must  now  have  elapsed."  And  the 
other   would   sav:  "It   takes    me    one    minute    to  walk 


20  IMAGINATION 

a  block.  I  have  now  imagined  all  the  steps  in  that 
distance.  Therefore  a  minute  must  now  have  elapsed." 
From  the  point  of  view  of  this  logical  or  practical  pur- 
pose, then,  we  can  say  that  the  imagery  is  dependent 
upon  personal  peculiarity,  and  that  its  exact  sensuous 
character  is  irrelevant.  To  take  another  illustration, 
suppose  we  ask  a  picnic  party  to  recall  the  spot  where  they 
ate  their  lunch  on  a  bygone  day.  One  may  say:  "It 
was  up  on  the  hill;  I  remember  the  sound  of  the  brook  up 
there."  Another:  "Yes,  it  was  on  the  hill;  I  remember 
the  view  we  got."  And  a  third:  "I  remember  it  by  the 
climbing  we  had  to  do,"  etc.  Here  again  a  bit  of  mental 
work  has  been  done.  By  means  of  associations  the 
different  members  of  the  group  have  answered  the 
question,  all  arriving  at  the  same  conclusion,  though 
the  associative  link  or  mediating  image  was  different  for 
each  one. 

Images  are  not  only  serviceable  in  enabling  us  to 
reproduce  former  experiences,  but  they  have  an  even 
more  important  function  in  enabling  us  to  look  out  for 
the  future.  Thus  our  hypothetical  picnic  friends  can 
do  other  things  with  their  respective  images  besides 
finding  the  answer  to  our  question.  The  one  who 
recalled  the  sound  of  the  brook  might  conclude  that  this 
would  be  an  excellent  spot  for  poetic  composition;  while 
the  one  who  recalled  the  burden  and  heat  of  climbing 
might  resolve  to  choose  a  different  place  for  rambling 
or  lunching.  In  this  way  the  imagery  of  their  past 
experience  would  play  a  part  in  altering  future  action. 
We  must  notice,  too,  that  before  affecting  future  action 
the  image  itself  undergoes  some  change.     In  the  mind  of 


THE  FUNCTION  OF  THE  IMAGE         21 

one  person  the  imagery  of  the  brook  has  become  allied 
with  the  imagery  of  poetic  composition.  The  person  who 
resolves  to  give  up  climbing  the  hill  has  some  imagery  in 
mind  corresponding  to  that  resolve.  This  might  be  the 
motor  image  of  climbing  plus  some  motor  image  of 
negation,  such  as  shaking  the  head  or  speaking  the  words, 
"I  won't  go  there  again."  Or  it  might  be  the  image  of 
walking  on  level  ground  (which  would  amount  to  the 
negation  of  climbing).  When  images  begin  to  shift  in 
this  way,  they  are  no  longer  simply  reproductive  of  past 
happenings,  but  are  creative,  and  are  indicative  of  some 
new  line  of  action  to  be  followed. 

Reproductive  images,  we  have  just  said,  are  those 
which  re-present  old  experience;  such  images  are  vica- 
rious percepts.  But  consciousness  always  has  some  refer- 
ence to  the  future,  and  we  never  quite  want,  or  quite  get, 
old  experience  over  again.  There  are  many  degrees  of 
change,  and  all  we  can  say  is  that  reproductive  images 
are  those  which  show  the  least  degree  of  change. 

The  Esthetic  Significance  of  the  Image.  However 
indifferent  the  exact  content  of  the  image  may  be  for 
logical  and  practical  purposes,  it  is  always,  in  the  field 
of  art  and  esthetics,  a  matter  of  the  utmost  importance. 
This  point  has  been  stated  to  everybody's  satisfaction  in 
this  famous  passage  of  Pater's  from  the  essay  on  The 
School  of  Giorgionc: 

"It  is  the  mistake  of  much  popular  criticism  to  regard  poetry, 
music,  and  painting  —  all  the  various  products  of  art  —  as  but 
translations  into  different  languages  of  one  and  the  same  fixed 
quantity  of  imaginative  thought,  supplemented  by  certain  technical 
qualities  of  colour,  in  painting  —  of  sound  in  music  —  of  rhythmi- 
cal words,  in  poetry.     In  this  way,  the  sensuous  element  iu  art. 


22  IMAGINATION 

and  with  it  almost  everything  in  art  that  is  essentially  artistic,  is 
made  a  matter  of  indifference;  and  a  clear  apprehension  of  the 
opposite  principle  —  that  the  sensuous  material  of  each  art  brings 
with  it  a  special  phase  or  quality  of  beauty,  untranslatable  into  the 
forms  of  any  other,  an  order  of  impressions  distinct  in  kind  —  is 
the  beginning  of  all  true  esthetic  criticism." 

In  admitting  a  difference  between  the  practical  and  the 
esthetic  function  of  the  image  we  want  to  be  careful 
not  to  admit  too  much.  In  a  later  chapter  we  shall 
argue  that  art  is  ultimately  practical.  What  we  admit 
here  is  that  logical  and  practical  purposes  are  not  always 
artistic. 

Creative  Imagination.  When  a  new  thing  is  exam- 
ined — •  whether  it  be  a  machine,  a  melody,  a  drama  or 
what  not  —  it  always  turns  out  to  be  no  more  than  a  new 
arrangement  of  old  elements.  Creation  is  rearrange- 
ment. The  novelty  is  the  combination.  This  process 
of  creation,  however,  is  one  of  those  things  that  will  not 
dance  to  our  piping;  the  new  combination  does  not  take 
form  at  our  mere  command;  we  cannot  compel  invention. 
New  ideas  seem  rather  to  come  by  grace,  when  they  come 
at  all.  Poets,  painters,  machine-inventors,  in  short,  origi- 
nators of  whatever  kind,  speak  of  ideas  as  having  "  in- 
spired" or  "seized"  them,  thoughts  as  having  "occurred" 
to  them.  Thus  an  artist  who  had  been  commissioned 
to  paint  the  frieze  of  a  certain  room,  and  to  whom  no 
directions  had  been  given  as  to  the  nature  of  his  composi- 
tion, said  that  as  soon  as  he  looked  at  the  space  he  was 
to  fill  he  saw  his  whole  design  in  every  detail  exactly 
as  he  afterward  executed  it.  But  while  invention  is 
always  a  little  in  the  nature  of  something  which  springs 


CREATIVE   IMAGINATION  2$ 

ready  done  from  the  region  of  the  subconscious,  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  a  lucky  accident,  yet  it  is  possible 
voluntarily  to  increase  the  chances  that  this  accident 
will  happen.  In  other  words,  one  may  qualify.  This 
may  be  done  by  becoming  saturated  with  the  ideas  and 
images  relevant  to  the  field  in  which  one  has  aspirations. 
Mathematical  novelties  occur  to  the  trained  mathemati- 
cian, musical  novelties  to  the  musician,  pictorial  novelties 
to  the  painter.  This,  as  a  rule,  will  be  found  to  hold 
good,  and  for  the  reason  that  the  persons  who  are  conver- 
sant with  a  given  field  have  a  better  supply  of  the  elements 
of  new  inventions  in  that  field. ^ 

*  As  a  description  of  the  mental  attitude  of  a  person  who  perceives  a 
new  relationship,  or  arrives  at  an  hypothesis,  the  following  quotation  is 
given  from  a  chapter  on  "The  Divining  Arts  of  a  Perceptive  Mind," 
in  Meredith's  "Egoist":  "De  Craye  strolled  through  the  garden.  He 
was  a  gentleman  of  those  actively  perceptive  wits  which,  if  ever  they 
reflect,  do  so  by  hops  and  jumps:  upon  some  dancing  mirror  within,  we 
may  fancy.  He  penetrated  a  plot  in  a  flash;  and  in  a  flash  he  formed 
one;  but  in  both  cases,  it  was  after  long-hovering  and  not  over-eager 
deliberation,  by  the  patient  exercise  of  his  quick  perceptives.  The  fact 
that  Crossjay  was  considered  to  have  Miss  Middleton  on  the  brain,  threw 
a  series  of  images  of  everything  relating  to  Crossjay  for  the  last  forty 
hours  into  relief  before  him;  and  as  he  did  not  in  the  slightest  degree 
speculate  on  any  of  them,  but  merely  shifted  and  surveyed  them,  the 
falcon  that  he  was  in  spirit  as  well  as  in  his  handsome  face  leisurely 
allowed  his  instinct  to  direct  him  where  to  strike.  A  reflective  disposi- 
tion has  this  danger  in  action,  that  it  commonly  precipitates  conjecture 
for  the  purpose  of  working  upon  probabilities  with  the  methods  and  in 
the  tracks  to  which  it  is  accustomed;  and  to  conjecture  rashly  is  to  play 
into  the  puzzles  of  the  maze.  He  who  can  watch  circling  above  it  awhile, 
quietly  viewing,  and  collecting  in  his  eye,  gathers  matter  that  makes  the 
secret  thing  discourse  to  the  brain  by  weight  and  balance;  he  will  get 
either  the  right  clue  or  none;  more  frequently  none;  but  he  will  escape  the 
entanglement  of  his  own  cleverness,  he  will  always  be  nearer  to  the  enigma 
than  the  guesser  or  the  calculator,  and  he  will  retain  a  breadth  of  vision 


24  IMAGINATION 

Then,  again,  there  are  devices  for  putting  oneself  in  the 
way  of  getting  suggestions.  Turner,  the  painter,  used 
to  give  colors  to  children  to  play  with,  and  then  watch 
their  daubing  to  catch  suggestions  from  the  accidental 
combinations. 

The  essentially  creative  moment  in  thinking  is  that 
in  which  the  mind  sees  likenesses,  when  it  perceives  a  sim- 
ilarity or  partial  identity  which  did  not  appear  before. 
The  genius  is  he  who  "spots"  the  elusive  similarity  or 
the  hidden  identity  between  different  things  which  escapes 
other  minds.  Despite  the  most  tremendous  discrepancy, 
Galileo  caught  the  likeness  between  the  cathedral  lamp 
and  the  planet,  Newton  the  likeness  of  the  faUing  apple 
to  the  earth,  Watt  the  identity  between  what  happens  in 
a  tea-kettle  and  what  may  happen  in  a  locomotive. 

In  artistic  composition,  also,  this  thinking  in  analogies, 
and  the  observation  of  similars,  plays  a  suggestive,  crea- 
tive part.  Literary  effect  depends  upon  it  very  much 
indeed;  all  similes,  metaphors,  allegories,  parables  and 
comparisons  come  under  this  head.  The  writer  who 
wishes  to  enrich  and  illumine  his  subject  proceeds  to 
liken  it  unto  something.  Thus  he  produces  figures  of 
speech,  and  perhaps  new  combinations  of  old  material. 
In  many  literary  figures  it  is  easy  to  point  out  these 
partial  identities.     For  example,  in: 

The  Worldly  Hope  men  set  their  Hearts  upon 
Turns  Ashes  —  or  it  prospers;  and  anon. 

Like  Snow  upon  the  Desert's  dusty  Face 
Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two  —  is  gone. 

forfeited  by  them.  He  must,  however,  to  have  his  chance  of  success,  be 
acutely  besides  calmly  perceptive,  a  reader  of  features,  audacious  at  the 
proper  moment." 


CREATIVE    IMAGINATION  2$ 

We  have  heard  of  "worldly  hope"  on  the  one  hand,  and 
of  snow  and  the  desert  on  the  other,  but  to  put  them 
together  and  to  emphasize  the  common  element  of  transi- 
toriness  is  the  creative  work  of  the  poet.  This  dis- 
covery of  an  image  (the  snow  upon  the  desert)  to  intensify 
the  idea  (worldly  hope  is  transitory)  is  artistic  creation. 
It  seems  rather  harder  to  show  in  a  pictorial  or  a 
musical  invention  the  part  played  by  the  perception  of 
similarity,  but  this  difficulty  is  only  apparent.  Fig.  35, 
page  190,  shows  a  rough  sketch  from  a  "  Wave  of  the 
Sea,"  by  Hokusai.  Now,  clearly,  this  is  no  literal  copy 
of  any  real  wave;  there  is  evidence  of  invention  in  it. 
Perhaps  the  most  characteristic  point  is  the  claw-like 
finish  of  the  spraying  edge  of  the  wave,  and  just  in  that 
point  is  where  the  artist  perceived  a  partial  identity, 
namely,  the  likeness  of  the  spray  to  a  myriad  of  clutch- 
ing hands  or  claws.  By  recording  and  emphasizing 
that  likeness  he  has  made  a  pictorial  invention.  By 
seeing  the  actual  wave  in  this  manner,  and  then  exagger- 
ating the  point,  he  has  found  the  image  which  gives 
vividness  and  piquancy  to  the  mere  idea  of  a  wave. 
Again,  a  musician  takes  his  theme  and  develops  it  into 
different  movements,  and  so  into  the  likeness  of  various 
things.  He  may  treat  it  as  if  it  were  a  march,  or  as  a 
waltz;  he  may  give  it  the  character  of  a  dirge,  or  the  like- 
ness of  a  jocund  roundelay. 

We  said  above  that  the  genius  catches  elusive  and 
unheard-of  similarities.  It  follows  that  when  he  ex- 
presses his  thoughts  and  feelings  he  does  it  in  rare 
figures  and  distinguished  images.  This  is  just  the  thing 
which  makes  hina  an  artist.     The  ideas  of  a  great  artist 


26  IMAGINATION 

are  not  so  unique;  Shakespeare  borrowed  right  and  left 
and  so  have  all  the  great  creators,  but  the  exact  form 
which  they  gave  to  those  ideas  was  the  personal  and 
unique  thing.  Then,  too,  an  idea  is  twice  the  idea  it 
was  after  it  has  been  associated  with  some  powerful  and 
illuminating  image.  Thus  the  idea  of  "self-control,"  al- 
though very  estimable  in  itself,  gains  not  a  little  being 
said  Henley's  way:  "I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul." 
The  special  and  distinctive  quest  of  the  artist  is  the 
search  for  persuasive  and  telling  form,  rare  and  delec- 
table imagery. 

In  producing  uncommon  imagery  the  man  of  genius 
opens  himself  up  to  misunderstanding.  He  must  expect 
to  appear  obscure  and  fantastic  to  some  of  his  public. 
Shelley  gives  this  figure  in  the  "  Skylark  ": 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire;  .  .  . 

If  we  analyze  the  sensuous  content  of  "skylark"  and 
"cloud  of  fire,"  it  is  hard  to  see  where  the  likeness  comes 
in,  and,  if  we  are  untouched  by  the  image,  we  may  reject 
it  as  obscure  and  fantastic.  But  if  we  accept  it,  like  it, 
feel  its  relevancy  and  justice,  we  must  admit  that  there 
is  some  subtle  bond  between  the  lark  and  the  cloud  of 
fire  which  we  feel  but  do  not  understand.  There  is  an 
emotional  congruity  between  them.  It  is  possible  to 
appreciate  sympathetically  some  things  which  we  do  not 
rationally  follow,  and  the  plain  mind  often  feels  its  way 
to  the  enjoyment  of  works  which  it  could  by  no  means 
analyze  or  expound.  Meredith's  novels  are  all  full  of 
delightful,    surprising   images,   many  of  which  can  be 


IMAGERY    MAY    BE   TRAINED  2/ 

grasped  only  by  an  act  of  faith.  One  girl  looks,  he  says, 
as  if  she  had  "a  romantic  tale  on  her  eyelashes."  An- 
other is  "a  dainty  rogue  in  porcelain."  Sentimentalism 
means  "fiddling  harmonics  on  the  strings  of  sensual- 
ism," etc.,  etc.  He  showers  out  a  bewildering  wealth  of 
them,  never  deliberately  edifying,  but  always  immensely 
vivid  and  interesting. 

Imagery  May  Be  Trained.  It  is  possible,  with  effort 
and  practice,  to  improve  the  power  of  imaging  things. 
This  does  not  mean  that  we  can  train  the  mind  to  invent, 
but  that  we  can  improve  the  power  of  reproductive  im- 
agination. If,  however,  reproduced  images  become 
more  numerous  and  accurate,  it  is  probable  that  this 
may  increase  the  chances  of  invention.  By  regularly 
trying  each  day,  one  can  increase  the  number  of  details 
which  can  be  simultaneously  visualized,  and  can  inten- 
sify the  vividness  of  them.  Greater  accuracy  and  vivid- 
ness can  also  be  developed  in  other  sense  departments. 
Galton  says  of  the  visualizing  power  (and  it  would  apply 
to  all  imagery):  "I  believe  that  a  serious  study  of  the 
best  j:nethod  of  developing  and  utilizing  this  faculty  .  .  . 
is  one  of  the  many  pressing  desiderata  in  the  yet  un- 
formed science  of  education." 

Reading  References 

Galton:    "Inquiries  into  Human  Faculty,"  pp.  83-114. 
Bain:   "The  Senses  and  the  Intellect,"  under  "Intellect."  Chap.  r. 
Sec.  74. 

James:    "Psycholon;y."     Chap,  xvm,  vol.  ii. 

Angell:    "Psycholop;y."     Chap.  viri. 

Lav:  "Mental  Imagery."     Psy.  Rev.  Mon.  Suppl.,  vol.  ii. 

RiBOT:"The  Creative  Imagination." 


CHAPTER    III 
FEELING 

I.    AFFECTION 

Feeling  must  be  defined  first  in  its  elementary  aspect 
as  affection,  and  then  in  its  complicated  phase  as  emo- 
tion. The  term  "afi'ection"  in  modern  psychological 
usage  means  certain  fundamental  or  elementary  aspects 
of  consciousness,  namely,  pleasantness  and  unpleasant- 
ness. (Some  writers  add  other  elements  to  this  list,  as 
"indifference,"  but  the  more  general  tendency  seems  to 
be  to  accept  this  twofold  classification.)  We  can  most 
easily  indicate  the  nature  of  affection  by  comparing  it 
briefly  with  cognition. 

Affection  and  Cognition.  All  mental  processes,  ac- 
cording to  one  view,  are  divided  into  two  great  classes, 
knowing  or  the  cognitive  class,  and  feeling  or  the  affective 
class.  In  the  former  belong  the  processes  of  sensation, 
perception,  imagination,  memory,  reasoning;  in  the  latter, 
agreeableness  and  disagrecablcness,  feelings,  emotions, 
moods,  passions,  sentiments.  To  distinguish  these  two 
classes  it  is  common  to  say  that  cognition  has  an  objec- 
tive reference,  that  it  tells  one  about  the  objects,  events, 
conditions  of  an  external  world;  whereas  feeling  has  a 
subjective  reference,  and  expresses  a  personal  reaction, 
or  records  the  subject's  manner  of  receiving  a  cognitive 
stimulus.     Moreover,  cognitive  processes  can  be  referred 

28 


ATTRIBUTES    OF   AFFECTION  29 

to  some  specific  sense-organ,  while  affective  processes 
involve  more  markedly  the  organism  as  a  whole. 

Attributes  of  Affection.  The  attributes  of  affection 
are  intensity,  duration  and  quality.  It  does  not  repre- 
sent spatial  extent.  In  this  it  is  unlike  visual,  tactile  and 
muscular  processes,  but  is  like  hearing,  smell,  taste  and 
some  organic  sensations.  Affection  may  vary,  by  many 
stages,  from  an  extremely  intense  to  a  very  mild  experi- 
ence. As  with  sensation,  it  is  proper  to  speak  of  a  thresh- 
old of  feeling.  Sometimes  the  neural  basis  of  feeling  is  so 
slightly  excited  that  no  feeling  emerges  into  consciousness 
and  the  feeling  is  then  said  to  be  below  the  limen.  Again, 
the  excitement  may  be  so  great  as  to  cause  fainting,  and 
then  the  feeling  is  said  to  have  passed  the  upper  limen. 
The  duration  of  affection  is  harder  to  investigate  than 
the  duration  of  sensation,  because,  for  one  thing,  the 
stimuli  are  harder  to  control.  In  working  with  color,  for 
instance,  it  is  easy  to  note  when  a  patch  of  blue  is  shown 
and  when  withdrawn,  but  the  adequate  stimulus  to  a 
pleasurable  feeling  for  blue  is  a  more  complex  affair.  It 
is  true  that  the  same  patch  of  blue  might  be  the  occasion 
of  the  feeling,  but  we  cannot  count  on  its  remaining  so 
under  slightly  different  circumstances.  It  is  almost  im- 
possible to  state  definitely  the  instant  when  a  feeling 
appears  and  when  it  disappears.  The  quality  of  an  affec- 
tion is  the  characteristic  part  of  it  which  cannot  be  varied 
without  destroying  the  affection,  and  which  cannot  be 
analyzed. 

Relation  of  Affection  to  the  Duration  and  Repetition 
of  Sensations.  In  any  concrete  moment  of  living  we  al- 
ways find  affection  and  cognition  associated.     Very  often 


30  FEELING 

the  judgment  of  "pleasant"  or  "unpleasant"  is  made 
about  or  attached  to  a  specific  sensory  process,  the  dura- 
tion of  the  process  influencing  the  duration,  intensity  and 
nature  of  the  aff"ection.  Very  brief  sensory  stimuli  are 
likely  to  be  unpleasant,  because  they  are  gone  before 
they  are  clearly  apprehended,  and  this  is  tantalizing. 
Very  long  stimulation,  if  continuously  attended  to,  is 
unpleasant;  for  even  when  a  stimulus  is  not  bad  to  begin 
with,  it  becomes  tedious,  and  sometimes  painful.  The 
case  is  not  quite  the  same  when  a  stimulus  instead  of  be- 
ing continuous  is  frequently  repeated.  If  the  repetitions 
come  rapidly  they  may  be  very  disagreeable,  as  in  case  of 
a  flickering  light;  but  if  they  come  at  long  intervals  there 
is  a  chance  that  the  experience  may  become  more  agree- 
able, as  in  case  of  acquired  tastes.  There  is  a  tendency, 
however,  not  to  attend  to  a  stimulus  which  is  continuous 
or  often  repeated,  and  when  this  tendency  is  operative 
we  say  that  one  has  become  indift"erent  or  habituated. 

Relation  of  Affection  to  Intensity  of  Sensations.  In 
general  it  may  be  said  that  very  weak  sensory  impressions 
are  either  indifl'erent  or  slightly  disagreeable,  because  they 
are  hard  to  perceive.  Extremely  intense  sensations  are 
disagreeable  and  often  painful.  A  moderate  intensity  of 
sensation,  like  a  moderate  duration,  is  usually  necessary 
for  an  agreeable  result.  Enough  has  been  said  to  show 
that  sensory  and  affective  processes  do  not  follow  the 
same  laws. 

The  Nature  of  Pain.  Pain,  though  not  itself  an  affec- 
tion, is  unique  among  sensations  for  its  close  connection 
with  the  affective  life.  Pain  is  a  sensation,  a  pure  and 
simple  quality.     It  is  often  described  as  cutting,  burn- 


NATURE  OF  PAIN  3 1 

ing,  pricking,  stabbing,  but  these  terms  merely  indicate 
the  experiences  which  accompany  it,  and  there  is  no  way 
to  describe  it  except  to  point  it  out  when  it  occurs.  Like 
any  ultimate  quality,  it  must  be  experienced  to  be  known. 
Like  other  sensations,  it  can  be  localized  with  some  accu- 
racy. Pain  shows  a  closer  kinship  with  emotion  than  with 
the  intellectual  processes.  Like  emotion,  it  is  character- 
ized by  intensity  and  impulsive  power.  Emotion,  which 
means  conflict,  frequently  involves  pain.  Finally,  the 
physiological  accompaniments  of  pain  are  like  the  basis 
of  emotion;  for  along  with  strong  emotion  of  any  kind 
there  goes  a  general  disturbance  of  organic  processes, 
alterations  in  breathing,  circulation,  glandular  secretions, 
and  sometimes  faintness,  trembling  and  nausea.  Pre- 
cisely these  things  are  present  in  the  case  of  hard  pain: 
broken  breathing,  altered  heart-beat,  tears,  sweat,  trem- 
bling and  nausea.  In  point  of  intensity  pain  seems  to 
hold  a  unique  place  among  sensations,  since  in  vividness 
and  keen  reality  it  has  no  equal. 

Significance  of  Pain  in  Mental  Life.  Nothing  is  more 
certain  than  the  unpleasantness  of  severe  pain,  and  hence 
it  seldom  fails  as  a  stimulus  to  attention  and  to  mental 
activity.  The  characteristics  of  pain  mark  it  out  as  the 
best  adapted  of  any  of  our  mental  processes  to  ,be  a 
medium  of  comparison  or  a  measure  of  values.  In  the 
first  place  it  is  a  simple  definite  sensation  which  is  com- 
mon enough  in  our  experience  to  be  readily  recognized 
and  appreciated.  It  is,  further,  capable  of  a  great  range 
of  intensities,  and,  finally,  it  is  the  most  reliable  of  all  ex- 
periences in  prompting  a  reaction.  There  is,  of  course, 
no  mental  content  which  is  so  constant  and  fixed  in  its 


32  FEELING 

relationships  as  physical  standards  are,  but  pain  seems 
to  be  better  than  any  other  mental  content  that  we  have. 
That  pain  actually  is  used  in  a  rough  way  as  a  measure 
of  value  or  interest  we  may  infer  from  the  following  facts: 
Among  savage  tribes  it  is  generally  required  that  the 
young  men  pass  through  painful  initiation  ceremonies 
before  they  are  deemed  worthy  to  have  full  membership 
in  the  tribe.  The  medieval  ascetics  were  regarded  as  holy 
in  proportion  to  the  austerities  which  they  endured. 
Again,  we  find  that  the  degree  of  attention  which  we  give 
to  any  object,  or  the  interestingness  of  it,  can  be  roughly 
indicated  by  the  amount  of  painful  stimulus  which 
must  be  applied  in  order  to  draw  us  away  from  it. 
Pain  has  a  function,  not  only  as  a  stimulus  to  action 
and  measure  of  value,  but  also  as  a  foil  to  pleasure. 
The  existence  of  pain  gives  point  and  significance  to 
the  existence  of  pleasure,  for,  in  order  to  discriminate 
anything,  there  must  be  something  to  discriminate  from. 

Pain  and  Unpleasantness.  Pain  is  a  sensation  and 
unpleasantness  an  affective  tone.  There  are  many  un- 
pleasant things  which  are  not  painful,  e.g.,  bad  color 
combinations.  On  the  other  hand  it  is  almost  univer- 
sally true  that  pain  is  always  unpleasant.  We  said  above 
that  nothing  was  more  certain  than  the  unpleasantness 
of  pain,  and  yet  there  seem  to  be  occasional  exceptions 
to  this.  One  writer  (Hirn)  discusses  the  "enjoyment  of 
pain,"  and  it  appears  that  slight  degrees  of  pain  are  at 
least  sufficiently  interesting  to  be  welcome,  under  some 
circumstances,  to  some  people. 

Function  of  Pleasantness  and  Unpleasantness.  It  is 
commonly  agreed  that  there  is  a  general  correspondence 


FUNCTION    OF   AFFECTION  33 

between  pleasantly  toned  consciousness  and  harmoni- 
ously working  activities  on  the  one  hand,  and  between 
unpleasantly  toned  consciousness  and  clashing  activities 
on  the  other.  Moderate  stimulation,  as  we  saw  above,  is 
more  likely  than  under-  or  over-stimulation  to  give  agree- 
able results.  The  conscious  feelings  serve  as  indices  of 
unimpeded  and  impeded  action  respectively.  Pleasant- 
ness means  that  something  agrees  with  us,  unpleasantness 
that  something  disagrees.  Beyond  this  very  general  and 
far  from  satisfactory  statement  it  is  hardly  safe  to  go.  It 
has  been  suggested  that  disagreeableness  means  a  lowered 
or  narrowed  power  of  action;  that  if  a  conflict  occurs  be- 
tween activities  we  must  eliminate  something.  But,  on 
the  contrary,  it  can  be  urged  that  conflict  is  the  sign  of  a 
broad  and  inclusive  activity;  that  the  person  with  many 
interests  is  the  one  oftenest  in  difficulty.  It  has  also  been 
believed  that  pleasure  is  stimulative  to  the  mental  proc- 
esses generally,  and  that  we  have  more  ideas  when  we 
are  happy.  But  again,  on  the  contrary,  there  are  the  cases 
of  mental  indolence  induced  by  pleasure. 

Significance  of  Pain  and  Unpleasantness  in  Art.  The 
presence  of  pain,  grief  or  melancholy  often  gives  refine- 
ment and  dignity  and  beauty  to  situations  which,  without 
them,  might  be  commonplace  or  unattractive.  Pain  and 
sorrow  are  in  themselves  awe-inspiring.  Plays  like 
"  Q^dipus "  would  be  only  wretched  and  revolting  as  a 
series  of  events;  but  the  pain  of  the  protagonist  compels 
attention  and  makes  them  tragedies.  The  story  of  Mar- 
guerite, simple,  loving  and  betrayed,  is  full  of  pathetic 
beauty;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  Marguerite,  merely  lov- 
ing and  simple,  is  capable  of  the  same  artistic  treatment. 


34  FEELING 

Ruskin  says:  "No  real  beauty  can  be  obtained  without  a 
touch  of  sadness.  Whenever  the  beautiful  loses  its  melan- 
choly, it  degenerates  into  prettiness."  Guyau  has  said  that 
the  higher  esthetic  emotion  is  never  clear  of  a  certain  sad- 
ness. We  shall  come  back  to  this  question  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  pain  in  the  discussion  of  tragedy. 

Esthetic  Pleasure.  Art,  on  its  sensuous  or  formal  side 
at  least,  always  aims  at  giving  some  degree  of  pleasure. 
In  a  later  chapter  we  shall  discuss  some  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  pleasure  in  art,  and  indeed  our  whole  study  of 
the  forms  which  give  rise  to  this  feeling  is  indirectly  a 
study  of  the  feeling  itself. 

II.    EMOTION 

I      That  which  distinguishes  emotion  from  affection  is  the 

I  greater  complexity  of  emotion.     An  emotional  state  is  not 

'  merely   pleasant   or   unpleasant,    but    it    includes   many 

*    muscular  and  organic  sensations  which  add  greatly  to 

the  richness  of  the  experience.     In  order  to  understand 

the   \)ar[    played    by  these   varied   bodily  sensations  we 

must  begin  our  study  of  emotion  with  a  discussion  of  its 

origin  in  instinctive  and  reflex  acts. 

Reflex  Action  and  Instinct.  There  is  no  fact  about 
the  psycho-physical  organism  more  fundamental  than 
the  fact  that  movement  of  some  kind  is  always  going 
on.  The  final  purpose  of  most  of  these  movements  is  to 
accomplish  the  adjustment  of  the  organism  to  its  environ- 
ment. Certain  movements  occur  very  constantly  and 
quite  regularly,  and  these  are  the  nucleus  of  our  exis- 
tence. They  are  the  movements  involved  in  circulation, 
respiration  and  digestion, —  the  movements  by  which  we 


INSTINCT  3  5 

profit  by  the  air  and  food  supplied  by  the  environment. 
These  three  powers  are  manifest  at  birth  and  we  call 
them  inherited  reflexes.  Other  inherited  reflexes,  like 
sneezing  and  winking,  appear  later.  Another  class  of 
movements  are  those  which  have  been  consciously  ac- 
quired, but  performed  so  often  that  they,  too,  have  become 
unconscious.  Hereditary  and  acquired  reflexes  are  not 
stimulated  consciously,  though  we  may  become  conscious 
of  them  after  they  are  performed. 

Instinctive  actions  are  like  hereditary  reflexes  in  their 
origin,  but  they  are  more  complex  in  nature  and  they  often 
require  some  conscious  ingenuity  to  assist  in  gaining 
their  end.  There  is  an  instinctive  tendency  to  run  away 
from  large  moving  objects,  and  this  is  an  hereditary 
prompting,  but  the  execution  of  it  may  involve  some 
conscious  plan  of  escape.  There  is  an  instinct  to  fight 
when  one  is  irritated,  but  the  fulfilment  may  require  very 
complicated  movementsof  striking, wrenching,  pulling  and 
pushing.  It  may  not  be  superfluous  to  mention  here 
some  of  the  most  important  instincts:  They  are:  shyness, 
secretivcness,  curiosity,  sociability,  acquisitiveness,  rivalry, 
jealousy,  sexual  and  parental  love,  play,  imitation, 
constructivcness. 

(The  three  last-named  instincts  have  a  special  impor- 
tance in  esthetic  theory,  and  we  shall  in  this  parenthesis 
speak  briefly  of  them.  Play  is  defined  as  the  "  free  pleasur- 
able and  spontaneous  activity  of  the  voluntary  muscles." 
[Angell.]  It  is  to  be  regarded  as  normally  a  "  discharge 
of  surplus  energy,"  and  it  is  free  in  the  sense  that  in  play 
the  child  or  the  adult  is  doing  something  which  has  no 
immediate  utility  in  providing  food  or  shelter  or  clothing, 


36  FEELING 

i.e.,  which  is  not  strictly  essential  for  mere  physiological 
existence.  In  another  sense  the  play  activity  is  most 
useful;  for  the  games  of  children  often  teach  them  to 
take  part  in  the  deeds  of  a  social  group.  Lessons  in 
subordination,  leadership  and  cooperation  are  gained  in 
this  way.  Play,  then,  is  usually  an  index  of  energy,  and 
is  at  the  same  time  an  investment  of  that  energy  in  a  form 
which  will  influence  future  action.  Imitation  is  often 
a  form  of  play,  but  it  is  often  present,  too,  when  the  play 
instinct  is  not  operative.  It  is  one  of  the  most  inveterate 
and  irresistible  of  all  human  tendencies.  We  constantly 
find  ourselves  imitating  the  speech,  manner  and  expres- 
sion of  the  person  we  have  last  been  talking  with,  and  not 
only  this,  but  we  mimic  the  inanimate  things  about  us. 
Who  is  not  impelled  to  follow  the  floating  clouds,  to  sway 
with  the  swaying  tree-tops  or  to  mock  the  face  of  a 
pansy?  It  will  appear  later  that  this  imitative  impulse 
is  of  the  greatest  moment  in  the  enjoyment  of  art.  Con- 
structiveness  is  an  instinct  in  one  sense  the  direct  opposite 
of  imitation.  It  is  the  tendency  to  alter  rather  than  to 
repeat  the  things  around  us.  It  is  the  pulling  to  pieces  or 
the  putting  together  of  things  which  "belong"  another 
way.  This  is  the  instinct  which  is  unconsciously  at  work 
when  new  images  seem  to  "  occur  "  to  the  artist.) 

Impulse,  An  impulse  is  the  consciousness  of  some 
tendency  to  action.  Our  instincts  are  felt  in  conscious- 
ness as  impulses;  and  our  reflex  acts,  if  something  stopped 
them  just  as  they  were  going  to  get  performed,  would  no 
longer  remain  purely  reflex,  but  they,  too,  would  appear 
in  consciousness  as  impulses.  Impulses  are  not  a  special 
class  of  conscious  contents,  but  rather  the  motor  aspect 


DARWIN'S    THEORY  3/ 

of  any  state  of  mind  at  all.  This  is  often  expressed  by 
saying  that  every  idea  or  every  state  of  mind  has  impul- 
sive power.  It  follows  that  whenever  one  has  ideas  to 
deal  with  one  also  has  an  activity  to  deal  with.  One 
might  indeed  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  every  idea  is  the 
idea  of  some  activity.  This  at  all  events  gives  some  no- 
tion of  how  fundamental  and  pervasive  a  factor  impulse 
is  in  our  consciousness. 

Darwin's  Theory  of  Emotion.  Darwin's  view  of 
emotion  expresses  a  theory  which  was  formerly  very  gen- 
erally accepted,  namely,  that  physical  attitudes  are 
"expressions"  of  emotion  in  the  sense  of  being  a  normal 
result  of  given  psychical  states.  Thus,  clenching  the 
fist  "expresses"  anger  because  it  is  the  usual  outcome 
of  feeling  angry.  Darwin  enunciated  three  principles 
of  expression:'  (i)  ^^  The  principle  of  serviceable  asso- 
ciated habits.  Certain  complex  actions  are  of  direct  or 
indirect  service  under  certain  states  of  the  mind,  in  order 
to  relieve  or  gratify  certain  sensations,  desires,  etc.;  and 
whenever  the  same  state  of  mind  is  induced,  however 
feebly,  there  is  a  tendency  through  the  force  of  habit  and 
association  for  the  same  movements  to  be  performed, 
though  they  may  not  then  be  of  the  least  use."  Thus 
when  one  rejects  with  great  feeling  some  unwelcome 
idea,  one  is  likely  to  make  movements  which  have  been 
used  in  the  rejection  of  material  things.  To  close  the 
eyes,  to  turn  away  the  face  and  to  push  with  the  hand 
have  been  the  reaction  in  the  past  to  unpleasant  objects, 
and  these  survive  by  association  when  one  reacts  to  a 
purely  ideal  object.     The  second  principle  is:  (2)   ^^The 

'  "The  Expression  of  the  Emotions  in  Man  and  Animals." 


SS  FEELING 

principle  of  antithesis.  Certain  states  of  the  mind  lead 
to  certain  habitual  actions,  which  are  of  service,  as  under 
our  first  principle.  Now  when  a  directly  opposite  state 
of  mind  is  induced,  there  is  a  strong  and  involuntary- 
tendency  to  the  performance  of  movements  of  a  directly 
opposite  nature,  though  these  are  of  no  use  .  .  .  ,"  etc. 
The  sketches  on  page  223  taken  from  Darwin  are  used  by 
him  to  illustrate  the  case  of  antithesis.  (3)  "  The  prin- 
ciple of  actions  due  to  the  constitution  of  the  nervous  sys- 
tem, independently  from  the  first  of  the  will,  and  indepen- 
dently to  a  certain  extent  of  habit.''  Under  this  heading 
are  recorded  certain  physical  concomitants  of  emotion 
which  Darwin  realizes  are  not  "results"  of  conscious 
states.  Such  are  trembling,  change  of  heart-beat  and 
of  glandular  secretions.  Later  theories  than  Darwin's 
emphasize  this  third  principle,  and  include  under  in- 
stinctive reactions  some  of  the  movements  which  he 
names  under  serviceable  associated  habits. 

James's  Theory.  The  central  point  of  James's  doc- 
trine is  that  the  bodily  changes  present  in  emotion 
"follow  directly  the  perception  of  the  exciting  fact  and 
that  our  feeling  of  the  same  changes  as  they  occur  is  the 
emotion."  1  Or,  as  Angell  says:'  "We  may  apprehend 
an  object  in  a  cold-blooded  and  self-controlled  way  as 
terrifying  and  dangerous.  .  .  .  But  we  never  feel  afraid 
unless  we  have  already  made  certain  of  the  motor  reac- 
tions which  characterize  fear."  The  effect  of  this 
theory  is  to  emphasize  the  instinctive  as  against  the  voli- 
tional character  of  the  physiological  changes  that  go  with 
emotion.     It    does    not    state    that    these    physiological 

"Psychology,"  ch.  25.  2  "Psychology,"  ch.  18. 


THEORIES    OF   EiMOTION  39 

processes  appear  in  consciousness  as  clearly  separated 
cognitive  elements  before  we  get  an  emotion,  i.e.,  we  do 
not  think  first,  "I  am  trembling,  my  heart  is  beating 
hard,  my  breathing  is  irregular,  etc.,"  and  then  feel  fear. 
But,  just  as  the  color-stimulus  red  acts  on  retina  and 
nerve  centers  (though  we  do  not  cognize  this)  before  it 
excites  a  sensation  of  red,  so  stimulations  from  certain 
other  bodily  organs  (which  we  do  not  severally  analyze) 
excite  the  feeling  of  fear. 

Dewey's  Theory.  Dewey  holds  that  an  emotion  is 
essentially  the  consciousness  of  conflicting  impulses.  He 
agrees  with  James  that  it  does  not  exist  prior  to  certain 
bodily  changes,  such  as  irregular  breathing,  trembling, 
etc.,  and  agrees  with  Darwin  (as  indeed  James  does) 
that  these  bodily  changes  and  attitudes  are  often  the 
result  of  inherited  reactions  formerly  (racially)  useful. 
He  adds,  however,  that  the  instinctive  tendency  to  assume 
such  attitudes  must  receive  some  kind  of  check  before 
an  emotion  is  felt.*  This  theory  is  the  one  adopted  in 
this  book,  and  the  succeeding  paragraphs  will  give  some 
illustrations  of  the  principle. 

Emotion  the  Consciousness  of  Conflicting  Impulses 
or  of  Interrupted  Activity.  If  in  every  activity  we  were 
perfectly  successful,  we  should  lead  a  life  of  pure  habit, 
untroubled  by  any  problems,  or  by  the  need  of  learning 
or  devising  new  reactions.  Everything  would  be  as 
easy  as  breathing  and  as  unconscious.  Only  when 
we  are  checked  in  our  activities  and  hindered  from  our 
objects  do  we  begin  thinking  or  feeling  very  much  about 
them.  Let  us  look  at  the  case  of  fighting  activity.  Sup- 
'    See  "  The  Theory  of  Emotion,"  Psy.  Rev.  I  and  II. 


40  FEELING 

pose  one  boy  strikes  another  and  the  other  promptly 
and  thoroughly  knocks  him  down.  The  victor  would  not 
normally  feel  anger;  for  he  has  followed  a  purely  instinc- 
tive prompting  to  its  natural  end,  and  this  without 
any  interruption.  If,  on  the  contrary-  his  pugnacious 
instinct  had  been  checked,  whether  by  his  sense  of  de- 
corum or  by  the  size  of  his  assailant,  the  youth  would  have 
experienced  the  emotion  of  anger.  The  force  which 
would  normally  go  out  in  action  would,  in  the  latter  case, 
be  caged  up  in  himself,  and  so  create  a  disturbance.  As 
another  illustration,  take  the  case  when  we  are  waiting 
to  speak  to  some  busy  person.  We  have  a  question  to 
ask  or  news  to  tell;  our  impulse  has  brought  us  to  the 
place,  and  nothing  remains  but  to  speak.  Minute  after 
minute  goes  by.  We  have  nothing  to  do,  hence  no  outlet 
for  our  impulse,  and  the  result  is  impatience  and  irri- 
tability, and,  finally,  perhaps  a  very  rage  of  exasperation. 
Here,  then,  is  an  emotion  generated  merely  by  suspense. 
But  the  suspense  involves  more  than  the  one  impulse  to 
speak  to  this  person;  for  during  theperiodof  waitingwe  are 
cut  off  from  other  activities  which  would  have  filled  that 
time.  Our  exasperation,  therefore,  represents  a  conflict 
of  impulses.  The  energy  which  would  ordinarily  be  dis- 
charged in  definite  activity  now  seems  to  be  oozing  out  all 
over,  and  therein  consists  the  irritability  and  the  emotion. 
In  fear,  for  another  example,  it  is  the  checking  of  our 
first  impulse  to  flight  which  gives  the  real  sense  of  terror. 
In  dreams  we  are  not  frightened  by  the  pursuing  goblins 
and  witches  so  long  as  we  can  run  or  fly  merrily  away, 
but  when  something  drags  us  back,  or  a  dreadful  languor 
pulls  us  down,  then  we  get  the  full  experience  of  fear. 


THEORY    OF   EMOTION  4 1 

The  moment  of  impotence  is  the  moment  of  poignant 
emotion. 

The  Motor  Attitude  in  Emotion.  If  impulse  is  a 
tendency  to  action,  the  iinal  success  and  reahzation 
of  an  impulse  is  some  complete  overt  act  or  some  spe- 
cial modification  of  an  act.  The  impulse  may,  of  course, 
be  wrecked  at  any  point  in  the  course  of  its  acting  out, 
but  whenever  it  is  stopped  we  have  at  least  a  part  of 
the  motor  attitude  which  is  appropriate  to  the  completed 
deed.  When  two  impulses  collide  we  have  a  struggle 
between  two  motor  attitudes,  and,  since  the  members  of 
the  body  cannot  be  in  two  different  positions  at  the 
same  time,  only  those  elements  of  the  two  attitudes  which 
are  common  or  compatible  can  be  maintained.  The 
attitude  is  often  like  that  assumed  in  certain  typical 
primitive  reactions.  In  the  emotion  of  anger  one  could 
have  a  variety  of  special  impulses, — impulses  to  say  brutal 
things,  or  to  do  things  which  might  be  indirectly  cruel; 
but  back  of  them  all,  and  part  of  them  all,  would  be  rem- 
nants of  the  old  primitive  reaction  of  tooth  and  nail. 
For  in  anger  of  whatever  kind,  from  the  murderous  rage 
of  Ivan  the  Terrible  to  the  most  sanctiiied  variety  of 
righteous  indignation,  there  is  a  common  intent  of  resis- 
tance, opposition  and  destruction,  and  the  execution  of  it 
begins  with  the  clenching  of  the  hands,  squaring  of  jaws 
and  a  certain  rising,  pushing  movement  in  chest  and 
throat.  It  may  be  said  that  these  are  but  useless  sur- 
vivals of  the  primitive  act;  but  we  may  answer  that  if  it 
is  of  any  use  to  have  emotions  at  all,  then  these  reactions 
are  strictly  useful  even  to  civilized  man,  for  they  are  the 
basis  of  the  emotion,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  without 


42  FEELING 

them  one  could  maintain  a  resistance  even  to  purely  ideal 
objects.  Take  also  the  emotion  of  embarrassment.  It 
may  seem  as  if  the  only  part  of  our  reaction  which  counts 
is  the  mental  resolve  to  avoid  similar  situations.  But 
the  immediate  attitude  —  the  attempt  to  shrink  from  view 
and  to  hide  the  face  —  expresses  what  is  really  the  common 
intent  of  all  forms  of  embarrassment,  and  if  it  were  not 
for  the  emotional  tone  it  is  doubtful  whether  we  would 
ever  make  the  mental  resolve. 

The  Content  of  Emotion  Is  Relatively  Simple.  Strong 
emotional  seizure  is  proverbially  a  blinding  experience, 
and  passion  is  usually  represented  as  a  state  of  relative 
indiscrimination.  The  object  of  our  impulses  is  present 
in  the  mind  in  only  a  highly  generalized  and  impracti- 
cable form.  There  is  no  well-considered  plan  of  action; 
it  is,  indeed,  the  very  failure  and  want  of  feasible  plans  or 
images  which  condition  the  emotion,  and,  as  soon  as  a 
concrete,  detailed  plan  is  formed  which  represents  each 
of  the  opposing  impulses,  the  moment  of  intensest  feeling 
is  over.  One  proof  of  the  blindness  of  feeling  lies  in  the 
semipathological  cases  where  a  feeling  once  aroused  and 
persistently  thwarted  will  eventually  satisfy  itself  in  any 
one  of  the  most  diverse  ways.  The  maddened  man,  like 
the  maddened  animal,  will  wreak  his  wrath  on  the  first 
thing  possible.  From  retaliation  of  some  particular  kind, 
his  object  may  become  mere  destruction  in  general. 
Other  evidence  of  the  simplicity  of  the  emotional  experi- 
ence is  the  fact  that  different  persons  have  but  little 
individuality  in  their  feelings.  Emotional  sympathy  is 
more  quickly  and  easily  spread  than  is  intellectual 
accord.     Everybody,  including  animals,  can  understand 


FUNCTION    OF    EMOTION  43 

when  one  is  afraid  or  sad  or  affectionate,  but  relatively 
few  can  understand  the  ideas  of  another  person.  Emo- 
tion seems  to  unite  one  with  the  race,  and  intellect  to 
distinguish  one  from  it.  Great  men  are  distinct  by 
reason  of  their  ideas,  not  by  virtue  of  having  emotions. 

We  said  above  that  emotion  is  blind;  but  along  with  its 
blindness  to  concrete  details  there  goes  clear  vision  on 
some  one  point,  that  is,  the  common  element  of  the  con- 
flicting impulses  is  abstracted  and  realized  with  intensity. 
For  example,  a  person  may  chafe  in  a  relationship 
which  he  cannot  immediately  break  from.  The  checked 
impulses  to  escape  take  the  general  form  of  a  deter- 
mination to  escape  somehow  at  some  time.  The  content 
of  the  emotion  is  the  presence  of  some  symbol  of  this 
general  intent.  The  feeling  of  the  bodily  attitude  may 
serve  as  such  a  symbol. 

The  Function  of  Emotion.  Feeling  and  emotion  are 
representative.  In  the  emotions  of  conscience  and  of 
taste  we  have  a  consolidated  residuum  of  our  past  training 
in  morals  and  in  art  appreciation,  — a  symbol  or  sign  of 
past  experience.  In  the  face  of  any  given  situation  it  is 
impossible  for  all  our  past  experience  in  that  line  to  be 
present  in  the  mind  in  the  shape  of  intellectual  judgments; 
but  all  of  it  is  in  some  degree  represented  by  our  emotional 
response,  for  all  our  past  experience  has  helped  to  build 
up  that  emotion. 

Emotion  constitutes  a  unity  and  practical  continuity  in 
our  experience.  It  unifies  our  activities  by  bringing  them 
under  generic  heads.  When  an  explanation  comes  back 
to  love,  sympathy,  jealousy,  fear,  hate,  we  accept  it  as 
final;  these  emotions  we  seem  to  regard  as  generic  and 


44  FEELING 

as  ultimate  "reasons"  or  "grounds"  for  doing  things. 
We  never  understand  the  actions  of  another  person  until 
we  know  the  emotion  back  of  his  acts.  Balzac,  in  his 
study  of  Catharine  de  Medici,  has  unraveled  the  apparent 
contradictions  in  her  life  and  made  of  it  a  logical,  intelli- 
gible, consecutive  history,  and  he  has  done  it,  as  he  says, 
by  taking  her  sovereign  passion  —  the  love  of  power  — and 
using  it  as  a  clue  and  key  to  all  her  actions.  He  explains 
her  by  this  passion. 

Wherever  there  is  emotion  there  is  the  condition  and 
stimulus  to  some  new  action;  for  out  of  the  struggle 
of  opposing  forces  there  must  come  some  compromise 
which  is  a  resultant  of  the  two  and  hence  different  from 
either.  Moments  of  transcendent  emotion  are  moments 
when  a  whole  personality  is  excited  and  the  interests  of 
a  whole  lifetime  are  welded  into  new  form,  ^ — ^as  in  a 
religious  ecstasy  which  results  in  a  lifelong  change. 
Emotion  means  crisis,  and  crisis  means  change. 

Emotion,  then,  represents  past  experience;  it  unifies, 
and  it  stimulates  to  something  new. 

Voluntary  Emotion  and  Emotion  Aroused  by  Art.  Is 
it  possible  to  stir  up  emotion  at  will  in  ourselves,  or  must 
we  wait  until  two  impulses  naturally  interfere?  James 
says  that  by  assuming  the  attitude  appropriate  to  a 
given  emotion  we  are  taking  an  important  step  toward 
creating  the  actual  emotion.  The  more  faithfully  we 
imitate  the  physical  changes,  the  more  fully  and  genuinely 
do  we  feel.  What  we  actually  do  in  stirring  up  a  feeling 
is  to  appeal  to  the  impulses  which  ordinarily  go  to  make 
it  up,  and  we  can  arouse  the  emotion  only  on  condition 
that  we  know  enough  about  ourselves  to  realize  what 


EMOTION    AROUSED    BY    ART  45 

the  effective  stimuli  are  for  these  component  impulses. 
The  artist,  therefore,  if  he  wishes  to  arouse  emotion  by 
his  work  must  contrive  to  stimulate  impulses  in  the 
observer  which  are  not  wholly  in  accord  with  one  another. 
Probably  the  most  powerful  instrument  in  the  trans- 
mission of  an  emotion  is  the  instinct  of  imitation.  If  the 
spectator  of,  e.g.,  a  statue,  or  of  an  actor,  is  led  to  imitate 
and  assume  the  attitude,  he  has  already  taken  the  first 
step  toward  producing  in  himself  the  emotion  in  question. 


CHAPTER   IV 
ORIGINS    AND    FUNCTIONS    OF    ART 

In  this  chapter  we  must  take  account  of  the  chief  needs, 
individual  and  social,  which  have  been,  and  still  are, 
operative  in  calling  out  artistic  activities.  As  far  back 
as  there  is  any  record  of  human  culture  there  is  evidence 
also  of  artistic  employment;  hence  we  must  believe  that 
the  motives  and  the  occasions  for  art-production  are  not 
merely  the  offshoot  of  a  highly  civilized  state,  but  are 
fundamental  in  human  nature,  and  appear  wherever  man 
tries  to  live  and  cope  with  his  surroundings.  Something 
will  be  said,  in  connection  with  each  special  art,  about  the 
primitive  forms  of  that  art,  and  for  the  present  the  occa- 
sions, motives  and  effects  will  be  considered  rather  than 
the  specific  forms. 

Primitive  Activities  and  Occasions  for  Art.  Savages 
have  no  businesslike  habits  of  work.  It  is  true  that 
they  can  work  in  the  sense  of  putting  forth  power,  and 
this  even  to  the  point  of  complete  exhaustion;  but  if  they 
do  it  there  has  to  be  a  plain  reason  why.  That  is,  there 
must  be  a  strong  and  very  present  stimulus  at  hand 
to  make  them  sustain  their  eft'ort.  Bucher  says  that 
regularity,  and  not  exertion,  is  their  bugbear.  Now,  the 
most  important  of  the  natural  stimuli  which  continually 
recur  are  the  want  of  food,  the  fear  of  enemies  and  the 
desire  to  plunder  them,  the  desire  to  attract  the  opposite 
sex,  the  fear  of  natural  forces  such  as  wind  and  lightning, 

46 


PRIMITIVE    OCCASIONS   FOR   ART  47 

and  the  desire  to  control  these  forces.  Such  natural  stim- 
uli, such  wants  and  instincts,  are  answered  by  the  ac- 
tivities of  hunting,  fishing  (and,  at  a  much  later  stage, 
agriculture),  by  warring,  by  religious  and  magic  rites, 
by  personal  adornment,  and  by  the  display  of  personal 
strength  and  craft.  These,  then,  are  the  principal  doings 
of  savages,  and  it  is  in  connection  with  these  interests  that 
their  different  art-forms  have  arisen. 

If  it  happened  that  men  always  responded  to  these 
natural  emergencies  in  a  manner  perfectly  satisfactory 
to  themselves,  very  likely  they  would  never  realize  the 
purpose  or  meaning  of  their  own  performances.  Stim- 
ulus and  response  would  occur  without  conscious 
intervention.  But  the  fact  is  that  the  response  is  often 
inadequate.  We  find  that,  in  order  to  meet  our  needs  in 
a  really  satisfactory  and  effective  way,  we  must  anticipate 
what  the  stimuli  arc  going  to  be  and  train  ourselves  to  a 
regular  rather  than  a  spasmodic  reaction  to  them.  Fore- 
seeing a  stimulus  and  ordering  the  reaction  to  it  is 
equivalent  to  setting  up  an  ideal  and  trying  to  fulfil  it. 
Instead  of  awaiting  the  natural  pressure  of  hunger  and 
then  following  out  the  first  impulsive  attempt  to  get  food, 
the  forethoughtful  person,  or  idealist,  strives,  by  antici- 
pating the  pressure,  to  better  the  response.  Within  any 
group  some  individuals  will  be  found  to  respond  more 
aptly  to  an  occasion  than  others.  Now,  as  soon  as  one 
man  begins  looking  at  another  to  see  how  he  does  things, 
that  other  man  becomes  a  leader  and  an  artist.  The 
man  to  whom  the  group  looks  for  an  example  becomes 
thereby  an  embodiment  of  their  ideal;  he  is  recognized 
as  the  one  who  "can,"  who  has  the  art  of  doing  things. 


48  ORIGINS   AND   FUNCTIONS    OF   ART 

The  primitive  artist  was  the  one  who,  by  a  personal 
example,  inspired  and  regulated  the  activity  of  a  group. 

War.  In  time  of  war  it  is  the  custom  of  primitive  tribes 
to  execute  war-dances.  Before  engaging  in  a  conflict 
the  whole  tribe  will  gather,  to  go  through  elaborate 
steps  with  great  flourish  of  weapons  and  with  terrible 
yells.  When  it  is  time  for  the  actual  battle  they  also  have 
a  presul,  or  "fore-dancer,"  to  lead  out  the  fighting  line, 
and  this  presul  performs  in  pantomime  all  the  motions  of 
the  fight.  This  personal  example  is  a  help  to  the  men 
both  emotionally  and  technically,  since  it  incites  the 
desire  to  fight  and  at  the  same  time  shows  the  strokes  by 
which  to  do  it.  After  the  battle,  too,  the  deeds  of  the 
tribe  and  of  the  chief  are  celebrated  by  imitative  dances. 
These  exhibitions  serve  several  practical  purposes:  they 
commemorate  and  fix  the  event,  they  astonish  the  women, 
and  they  fire  the  warriors  with  the  desire  for  future  battle. 

Accompanying  the  dancing,  and  as  an  additioiial 
incitement  to  valor,  come  the  primitive  war-songs.  The 
noise  of  drums  and  pipes  and  the  song  of  the  tribe,  in 
which  its  prowess  is  boasted,  are  powerful  props  to  the 
tribal  courage.  Savages  seem  to  understand  thoroughly 
that  "a  noisy  man  is  always  in  the  right,"  and  they 
sagaciously  adopt  loud  rhythmic  noises,  music  and  words 
as  their  allies. 

As  a  still  further  contribution  to  the  fighting  power  of 
the  savage,  the  stimulating  effect  of  pictorial  art  is  em- 
ployed. Standards  and  flags  are  carried  which  have  on 
them  the  image  of  some  tribal  god  or  totem  animal.  The 
men  also  make  a  practice  of  personal  decoration,  and  the 
ornamentation  of  weapons,  helmets  and  shields.     The 


PRIMITIVE   OCCASIONS    FOR   ART  49 

warrior  not  only  trims  himself  with  lurid  war-paint, 
but  he  paints  on  his  shield  terrific  faces  with  glaring 
eyes  and  lolling  tongues.  Such  display  tends  to  en- 
courage himself  and  to  present  an  overwhelming  appear- 
ance to  the  enemy.  Some  of  the  designs  are  probably 
used  also  for  their  supposed  magic  properties. 

Hunting  and  Other  Industry.  The  deeds  of  great 
hunters  arc  remembered  in  songs  and  pantomimes.  The 
movements  of  the  hunter  in  trapping  or  killing  the  game, 
and  also  the  characteristic  movements  of  the  animals 
which  he  hunts,  are  reproduced.  This  imitation  of  the 
animals  themselves  fulfils  two  purposes:  it  is  an  important 
reminder  to  the  hunter  of  the  nature  of  the  quarry,  and 
it  is  also  supposed  to  have  a  magic  virtue  whereby  the 
thing  mimicked  is  delivered  into  the  power  of  the  hunter. 
The  image  of  the  animal  is  sometimes  carved  or  scratched 
on  the  hunting  implement  with  magic  intent. 

The  connection  of  art  with  other  branches  of  work 
is  a  very  close  and  important  one  in  undeveloped  stages 
of  culture.  Wherever  there  is  long,  monotonous  activity 
to  be  sustained,  there  dancing  or  singing  is  developed  to 
accompany  it.  Grinding  grain  in  hand-mills,  spinning 
and  weaving,  drawing  and  carrying  water,  washing 
clothes,  treading  the  wine-press,  sowing  the  fields  and 
reaping  the  harvest,  —  all  such  industries  are  enlivened 
each  with  its  peculiar  kind  of  art  stimulus.  In  cases  where 
concerted  work  has  to  be  done,  as  when  many  hands  join 
in  lifting  a  burden,  pulling  a  weight  or  rowing  a  boat,  there 
is  regularly  found  among  lower  races  the  institution  of 
the  presul.  This  person  performs  for  the  group,  as  we 
have  seen  in  the  case  of  fighting,  the  successive  movements 


50  ORIGINS   AND   FUNCTIONS   OF   ART 

which  the  members  of  the  group  must  go  through,  and 
he  sets  the  time  for  them  so  that  all  may  work  in  unison. 
He  is  the  inspirer  and  regulator  of  the  labor.  The  fol- 
lowing work-song  was  used  by  a  gang  of  men  in  Cairo 
who  were  employed  in  pounding  down  a  road/  The 
leader  would  sing  this  melody  while  he  took  up  his  work- 
ing tool  and  braught  it  down  with  a  thud  on  each  of  the 
accented  notes.  He  would  then  stop  and  wait  while  all 
the  others  lifted  up  their  implements  and  sang  the  same 
tune  in  unison,  pounding  down  as  he  had  done  on  the 
accented  notes. 


^i 


The  Desire  to  Attract.  The  desire  to  attract  the  oppo- 
site sex,  and  the  desire  to  attract  general  admiration  and 
to  enhance  one's  own  feeling  of  personal  consequence,, 
have  led  very  early  in  the  history  of  the  race  to  the  cus- 
tom of  ornamenting  the  body  by  painting,  tattooing  and 
scarification,  and  by  the  wearing  of  feathers,  shells^ 
strings  of  teeth,  etc.  This  use  of  ornament  precedes 
by  a  long  time,  Grosse  says,  the  employment  of  orna- 
ment on  inanimate  things.  Not  only  does  such  personal 
decoration  excite  pleasure  by  the  immediate  impression^ 
but  it  often  signifies  the  possession  of  unusual  strength 
and  skill  by  the  wearer.  Thus  a  decoration  of  enemies* 
scalps  would  signify  that  the  wearer  was  a  brave  warrior; 
the  possession  of  a  rare  bird's  feathers  would  mean  that 
he  was  skilful  in  the  hunt;  and  a  fine  array  of  scars  would 

'  This  example  was  given  to  me  by  Mrs.  C.  Johnson,  who  witnessed 
the  sccnr. 


PRIMITIVE    OCCASIONS    FOR   ART  $1 

mean  that  he  had  the  fortitude  to  endure  great  pain.  Cer- 
tain other  motives  may  be  recognized  in  this  personal 
decoration;  it  is  said,  for  example,  that  some  of  the  tat- 
tooed and  scarified  designs  are  tribal  emblems  to  indicate 
a  social  bond,  but  the  two  purposes  given  above  are 
probably  dominant,  namely,  to  present  an  appearance 
which  shall  be  intrinsically  pleasing,  and  which  shall 
also  prove  what  a  tremendous  fellow  one  is. 

Love-dances  are  common  in  some  tribes.  They  are 
calculated  to  express  emotion  and  to  display  personal 
attractions. 

Religious  and  Magic  Rites.  Religious  dances  have 
been  observed  among  some  tribes,  though  they  are 
believed  now  to  have  been  less  common  than  earlier 
observers  supposed.  Their  purpose  is  to  propitiate 
gods  or  demons  and  to  induce  their  help  or  favor.  The 
connection  of  primitive  art  with  the  rites  of  magic  is 
well  attested.  The  main  idea  back  of  primitive  magic 
is  this:  that  a  person  may  control  another  person  or 
thing  by  getting  control  of  something  which  has  been 
closely  associated  with,  or  part  of,  that  person  or  thing, 
or  else  by  getting  control  of  some  image  of  the  object 
which  is  to  be  influenced.  That  part  of  the  practice 
of  magic  which  is  stimulative  to  art  is  the  part  based 
upon  this  second  idea,  namely,  the  belief  that  in  acting 
upon  the  likeness  or  image  of  anything  one  can  act  upon 
the  thing  itself.  This  belief  is,  of  course,  grossly  un- 
critical, but  it  is  based,  nevertheless,  on  a  perfectly  valid 
experience,  —  the  psychical  power  of  the  image.  Even 
among  Europeans  a  few  centuries  ago  it  was  not  uncom- 
mon to  try  witchcraft  on  an  enemy  by  making  a  wax 


S2  ORIGINS   AND   FUNCTIONS   OF   ART 

image  of  the  person  to  be  injured,  and  then  melting  the 
effigy  before  the  fire  or  sticking  pins  into  it.  (This  su- 
perstition is  commemorated,  for  instance,  in  Rossetti's 
poem,  "Sister  Helen.")  Just  so,  primitive  folk  believe 
that  by  imitating  certain  things  in  dances  and  dramatic 
performances  they  can  exert  compulsion  over  the  things 
themselves.  They  can  hasten  the  coming  of  summer  by 
enacting  a  scene  in  which  they  make  believe  drive  off 
winter  and  usher  in  spring;  they  can  induce  a  god  to  do 
whkt  they  want  him  to,  by  impersonating  him  in  the  act 
of  doing  it.  This  same  principle  of  magic  is  exercised 
by  the  medicine  men.  When  they  are  called  in  to  attend 
the  sick  they  imitate  the  symptoms  of  the  disease,  or 
they  imitate  the  evil  spirit  with  which  the  sick  person 
is  supposed  to  be  possessed.  In  this  w^ay  they  expect  to 
control  or  combat  the  sickness.  It  is  evident  from  the 
facts  about  the  practice  of  magic  that  magic  is  an  incen- 
tive to  the  imitative  impulse,  and  encourages  the  pro- 
duction of  likenesses  of  things. 

Primitive  Attitude  toward  Nature.  In  speaking  of 
the  occasions  of  early  art  it  may  seem  as  if  we  ought  to 
mention  the  perception  of  natural  beauty  as  a  direct 
stimulation  to  art-production.  But  the  truth  is  that 
primitive  man  seems  to  have  little  or  none  of  the  "dis- 
interested" admiration  of  nature  w^hich  the  modern  has. 
The  savage  must,  of  course,  observe  and  take  account  of 
natural  forces,  and  he  is  particularly  attentive  to  animal 
life,  but  his  interest  is,  for  the  most  part,  thoroughly 
tinged  with  immediately  practical  purposes.  The  fol- 
lowing hunter's  song  illustrates  the  character  of  their 
"love  of  nature": 


y STIMULATIVE   POWER    OF   THE    IMAGE  53 

The  kangaroo  ran  very  fast, 

But  I  ran  faster. 

The  kangaroo  was  fat, 

I  ate  him. 

Kangaroo!  Kangaroo!^ 

Songs  which  show  appreciation  of  beautiful  landscape 
are  extremely  rare.  Not  only  is  the  savage's  interest  in 
natural  phenomena  limited  to  their  effect  upon  himself, 
but  all  his  conceptions  of  nature  are  anthropomorphic. 
He  sees  everything  in  his  own  image.  All  his  values  are 
personal  and  social.  Admiration  of  natural  scenery, 
simply  as  natural  scenery,  is  racially,  as  well  as  individ- 
ually, a  late  development. 

Force  of  Suggestion  in  Primitive  Art.  We  see  that 
much  of  primitive  art  consists  in  setting  an  immediate 
personal  example,  which  stimulates  by  suggestion  some 
desired  activity.  The  artist,  or  first  performer,  in  these 
cases  furnishes  the  model  or  imagery  of  action,  and  the 
group,  following  its  instinct  for  imitation,  executes  a 
copy.  The  setting  up  of  such  an  image,  even  when  peo- 
ple already  know  what  they  have  to  do,  contributes  to 
the  effectiveness  of  the  movements.  It  is  well  known 
by  athletes,  and  has  been  shown,  too,  experimentally, 
that  the  first  of  a  regular  series  of  movements  is  not  so 
strong  as  the  second  or  third.  The  first  attempt  serves 
to  "warm  up"  the  organism;  and  an  important  part  of 
the  warming-up  ])rocess  is  the  clearer  apprehension  of  the 
image  of  the  movement,  which  is  gained  by  the  initial 
trial.  Upon  this  image  the  second  movement  is  based 
and  supported.     Further,   it  is  almost   universally  true 

'  Spencer,  "  Descriptive  Sociology,"  quoted  by  Grosse  in  "Beginning? 
of  Art." 


54  ORIGINS.  AND   FUNCTIONS    OF   ART 

that  a  runner  makes  better  time  when  he  runs  with  pace. 
The  sight  of  some  one  ahead  of  him  making  the  same 
motions  helps  to  lift  him  along.  Whatever  tends  to  clarify 
and  vivify  the  image  of  an  act  tends  to  precipitate  the  act, 
and  for  this  purpose  the  force  of  immediate  and  literal 
example  is  uncommonly  great.  There  is  here  no  need 
for  reflection,  and  none  of  the  friction  of  finding  the  appli- 
cation or  meaning  of  the  stimulus.  You  do  what  you 
see.  Complete  absorption  in  the  leader,  an  open,  sug- 
gestible attitude,  is  about  the  only  mental  process  neces- 
sary to  this  primitive  type  of  esthetic  appreciation. 

Effect  of  Rhythm.  The  solicitation  of  the  tendency 
to  imitate  is  particularly  irresistible  when  the  thing  to  be 
imitated  is  rhythmical  in  character  or  is  repeated  at  regu- 
lar intervals  until  it  becomes  so.  Even  a  person  who 
could  successfully  resist  first  suggestions  would  almost 
certainly  be  led  to  imitate  a  movement  if  he  saw  it  repeated 
rhythmically  for  a  long  time.  Rhythm  in  primitive  art 
has  another  use,  aside  from  its  stimulating  effect  upon 
men  individually.  It  serves  to  time  the  movements  of 
those  who  act  in  concert,  and  so  to  make  their  efforts 
more  eft'ective.  The  beating  of  drums  conduces  to  an 
ordered  as  well  as  a  lively  march;  the  regulation  of  the 
rowers  is  necessary  to  any  progress  of  the  boat;  and  men 
pulling  a  rope  are  more  forceful  when  their  pull  is  simul- 
taneous. In  much  cooperative  work  a  regular  rhythm 
is  an  absolutely  essential  device  for  securing  results. 
More  will  be  said  of  the  nature  of  rhythm  in  the  next 
chapter. 

General  Function  of  Primitive  Art.  The  general  func- 
tion of  primitive  art,  as  indicated  above,  is  to  inspire  and 


FUNCTION    OF   PRIMITIVE   ART  55 

regulate  the  practical  activities  of  savage  life.  It  — art 
—  is  a  series  of  devices  for  heightening  power  in  speci- 
fied directions.  The  close  connection  between  the  work 
of  art  and  the  occasion  which  produced  it  is  illustrated 
by  one  of  Biicher's  observations.  He  says  if,  in  the 
winter  time,  one  asks  a  Bulgarian  peasant  to  sing  a  har- 
vest-song, the  answer  is  sure  to  be  that  it  would  be  a  pity 
to  sing  such  a  song  when  it  was  not  the  season  for  it. 
They  do  not  dissociate  the  songs  from  their  original  set- 
ting in  a  social  process.  The  method  of  the  earliest  art 
is  direct  personal  appeal  and  example  in  dance,  panto- 
mime and  song.  Through  these  arts,  and  also  through 
the  decoration  of  his  body  and  his  property,  the  person- 
ality of  the  artist  impresses  itself  on  his  public.  Early 
art  "furthers  social  ends  and  at  the  same  time  expresses 
and  preserves  to  some  extent  the  influence  of  the  artist. 
,  >^  Civilized  Activities  and  Occasions  for  Art.  The  great 
difference  between  primitive  and  civilized  activity  is  the 
division  of  labor  and  the  specialization  of  the  worker. 
The  primitive  community,  its  employment  being  homo- 
geneous, had  a  single  ideal  for  all  members.  Every- 
body had  to  be  a  warrior  and  hunter,  and  consequently 
strength  and  cunning  were  prized  as  the  absolute  virtues. 
Men  in  early  stages  of  culture  are  more  nearly  of  the 
same  type.  With  social  development  comes  a  greater 
variety  of  occupations;  and  the  devotion  of  separate 
groups  to  different  occupations  tends  to  develop  different 
classes  and  types.  In  modern  theory  this  movement  of 
specialization  may  be  carried  very  far.  Our  ideal  world 
is  one  in  which  every  human  being  fills  a  unique  posi- 
tion,  is   doing   something   a   little   different  from  what 


56  ORIGINS   AND   FUNCTIONS   OF   ART 

any  one  else  is  doing,  is,  in  short,  a  person  and  not  a 
mechanical,  interchangeable  part.  The  ideal  common- 
wealth is  not  a  society  where  one  person,  similar  in  kind 
to  the  others,  but  greater  in  degree,  leads  all  the  rest;  but 
one  in  which  every  person  is  the  leader  or  head  in  some 
kind  of  activity,  one  in  which  all  are  different  in  kind,  but 
equal  in  degree. 

Another  important  difference  between  savage  and 
civilized  man  is  the  ability  of  the  latter  to  keep  up  an 
irksome  task.  The  modern  man  has  the  habit  of  work; 
he  can  continue  his  activity  without  having  an  elaborate 
sensory  stimulus  always  present.  This  does  not  mean 
that  civilized  people  can  get  on  without  any  kind  of 
stimulus;  it  means  that  they  can  be  stimulated  by  more 
remote  things.  The  idea  of  some  future  good,  even  many 
years  ahead,  is  often  enough  to  keep  the  modern  person 
employed.  He  can  be  inspired  by  words  spoken  to  him 
many  years  gone  by.  He  can  be  spurred  on  by  the 
example  of  men  who  are  doing  things  quite  different  in 
kind  from  his  own  work.  In  brief,  he  can  get  stimulation 
out  of  things  at  wide  range,  he  can  apply  things  to  him- 
self even  when  they  are  remote  in  time  or  in  character 
from  his  own  occupation. 

Modern  activities  being  so  greatly  varied,  modern  art 
has  a  wider  range  of  occupation  to  start  from.  Theoret- 
ically, at  least,  every  human  life  offers  occasion  and 
material  for  art.  The  modern  artist  has  a  larger  public 
and  a  public  with  greater  diversity  of  interests.  This 
condition  may  lead  to  two  different  results:  either  the 
artist  will  choose  some  subject  which  is  common  to  all 
human  nature  *in  spite  of  its  diversities,  or  else,  trusting 


THE   ART-IMPULSE  57 

to  the  public's  breadth  of  interest,  he  will  record  his 
particular  personal  experience.  These  two  tendencies 
are  not  irreconcilable,  as  we  shall  see  later.  With  such 
changed  conditions  we  must  look  for  some  change  in  the 
mental  processes  of  the  civilized  artist  and  his  civilized 
public.  What,  first,  is  the  modern  impulse  to  art- 
production  ? 

The  Art-Impulse.  What  is  the  creative  impulse  like? 
How  does  the  artist's  attitude  resemble  and  how  does  it 
differ  from  the  appreciative  attitude?  Before  we  try  to 
find  the  answer  to  these  two  questions  let  us  understand 
that  by  the  "  producer  of  art  "  we  need  not  mean  the  per- 
son of  great  genius  or  talent, but  we  may  include  every  one 
who  has  seriously  tried  to  do  something  artistic.  This 
means  nearly  everybody.  Hirn  says:^  "If  the  notion  of 
art  is  conceived  in  its  most  general  sense,  every  normal 
man,  at  some  time  of  his  life  at  least,  is  an  artist  — in 
aspiration,  if  not  in  capacity." 

An  artist  might  be  led  by  a  variety  of  motives  to  under- 
take a  work  of  art — external  motives  like  love,  emulation, 
money,  etc.  —  but  apart  from  these  he  is  also  moved  by  an 
intrinsic  art-impulse,  which  is  not  exactly  art  for  art's 
sake  either.  Schiller  gave  a  proper  recognition  to  the 
spontaneous  and  free  nature  of  the  art-impulse  by  regard- 
ing it  as  the  unfolding  of  the  play  instinct.  This  view  was 
taken  up  later  and  developed  by  Spencer.  Art,  they 
held,  is  a  grown-up  kind  of  play,  and,  as  such,  is  a  means 
of  taking  care  of  "surplus  energy."  There  are  two  chief 
lines  of  objection  to  this  theory.  The  first  is  that  neither 
art  nor  play  can  be  regarded  as  mainly  a  safety-valve  or 

'   "  The  Origins  of  Art  "  ch.  2. 


58  ORIGINS   AND    FUNCTIONS    OF   ART 

drain  for  surplus  energy.  These  activities  are  often 
carried  on,  in  fact,  when  the  player  and  the  artist  have  no 
surplus  energy.  The  other  sort  of  objection  has  to  do 
with  the  difference  in  motive  and  in  product  between  art 
and  play.  The  play-impulse  is  satisfied  when  the  actual 
process  of  the  game  is  complete.  But  the  art-impulse 
demands  not  only  the  process,  but  also  some  specific  prod- 
uct, which  shall  endure  after  the  act  of  production  is 
complete.  This  point  is  well  stated  by  Hirn.  Other 
theories  as  to  the  nature  of  the  art-impulse  have  been 
maintained:  one,  that  it  is  a  manifestation  of  the  imitative 
impulse  (Arisioile) ;  another,  that  it  is  derived  from  the 
desire  to  attract  by  pleasing^_(  Marsh  all)  or  the  desire  for 
self-exhibition  (Baldwin).  There  is  truth,  doubtless,  in 
each  of  these  theories,  but  possibly  better  than  any  is 
Hirn's  description  of  the  art-impulse  as  a  desire  for  the 
objectification  of  emotion. 

The  art-impulse  seems  to  be  a  desire  to  perpetuate 
one's  own  emotional  experiences,  to  crystallize  some 
exciting  but  too  fleeting  instant.  If  we  have  had  a 
striking  and  significant  moment,  a  strange  sorrow  or 
curious  joy,  we  want  it  to  be  recorded.  Now,  the  only 
real  way  to  record  a  thing  is  to  put  it  in  such  shape  that 
it  makes  an  impression  both  on  oneself,  and,  especially, 
on  others,  — makes  a  lasting  or  a  revivable  impression. 
Pleasing  form  is  the  best  chance  for  such  immortality. 
Hirn  writes:'  "The  work  of  art  presents  itself  as  the 
most  effective  means  by  which  the  individual  is  enabled 
to  convey  to  wider  and  wider  circles  of  sympathizers  an 
emotional  state  similar  to  that  by  which  he  is  himself 

'    Op.  cit.  ch.  vi. 


THE    ART-IMPULSE  59 

dominated."  When  we  communicate  our  experience  we 
wish  to  do  it  in  so  apt  a  way  that  when  others  hear,  or 
when  we  come  back  to  it  ourselves,  our  moment  h'ves 
again,  and  wc  are  justified  in  having  appreciated  it. 
We  want  to  put  it  in  such  a  way  that  it  will  modify 
the  feelings  and  actions  of  others;  we  want,  in  fact,  to 
establish  our  own  problems  and  emotions  as  the  impor- 
tant ones.     This  is  our  objectification  of  emotion. 

The  artist's  consciousness  is,  in  one  sense,  more  com- 
prehensive than  the  consciousness  of  the  amateur,  who 
merely  appreciates  the  artist's  product;  for  the  producer 
must  first  have  had  the  appreciative  attitude  toward  his 
own  idea  before  he  embodied  it;  he  must  have  felt  the 
esthetic  thrill  toward  something  in  his  environment  which 
suggested  his  idea.  In  another  sense  the  amateur  attitude 
is  more  comprehensive;  for  the  mere  observer  is  not  sub- 
ject to  that  anesthesia  which  active  production  occasions, 
and  he  has  leisure  to  gather  a  wider  range  of  impressions, 
which  he  may  bring  to  bear  on  his  criticism  of  the  work 
of  art.  These  two  attitudes,  of  course,  interact:  the 
producer  who  has  a  wide  variety  of  impressions  is  so  much 
the  better  artist,  and  the  amateur  who  has  tried  to  produce 
is  thereby  wonderfully  sharpened  in  his  observation  of 
the  elements  of  beauty.  Still,  while  one  frame  of  mind 
is  preeminently  receptive,  the  other  is  chiefly  expressive, 
the  artist  desiring  to  impose  his  thought  on  others. 

Our  next  few  paragraphs  must  deal  with  the  observer's 
point  of  view  as  he  appreciates  a  work  of  art.  The 
esthetic  consciousness  of  the  observer  is  commonly  de- 
scribed as  disinterested,  immediate  in  its  apprehension 
of  value,  and  objective  in  its  reference. 


6o  ORIGINS   AND   FUNCTIONS    OF   ART 

Esthetic    Consciousness    Disinterested.     One    may    be 

interested  in  an  object  in  a  variety  of  ways.     To  a  hungry 
man,   an  apple  is  essentially  something  to  eat;  to  the 
sportive  lad,  it  may  be  a  missile  to  throw  or  a  ball  to 
catch;  to  the  art  student,  it  may  appear  a  model  to  be 
copied.     In  each  of  these  cases  we  find  a  person  with 
an  ax  to  grind;  each  wishes  to  use  that  apple  as  means 
to  his  own  ends.     Now  it  may  happen  that   a  fourth 
person  will  appear  who  says  he  is  interested  in  the  apple 
just  as  an  apple,  that  is,  he  is  not  consciously  trying  to 
appropriate  it  to  private  interests.     This  individual  has 
one  of  the  signs  of  the  esthetic  attitude.     Instead  of  an 
apple,  let   us  consider  a  colored   print.     As  a  piece  of 
paper  it  might  be  used  to  light  a  fire  with,  or  to  write  on, 
or  to  stop  a  crack  in  a  window,  but  we  feel  at  once  in 
each  of  these  cases  that  violence  is  done  to  our  object,  that 
it  is  being  subjected  to  unfit  ends,  and  made  to  serve 
purely  as  an  instrument.     The  only  attitude  which  we 
here  recognize  as  proper  is  the  one  which  seems  to  regard 
the    picture   as   an   end   in   itself.     The  "disinterested  " 
interest  is  the  one  which   goes  the   longest  uay  toward 
subordinating  immediate  personal  ends  to  the  end    sug- 
gested  by   the  object   itself,  or  at   least   to  some   larger 
and  more  remote  personal  end.     This  feeling,  of  disin- 
terested friendship  as  we  might  call  it,  toward  the  work 
of  art  has  been  described  as  the  absorption  of  the  subject 
in  the  object.     It  is  sometimes   felt  as  a  freeing  of   the 
subject  from  desire  or  will.     By  saying  that  the  esthetic 
consciousness  is  disinterested,  then,  we  mean  that  there 
is  some  kind  of  subjection  of  the  self,  or  some  suspension 
of  purely  utilitarian  or  personal  interests. 


ESTHETIC    VALUE   IS    IMMEDIATE  6 1 

(We  may  notice  here,  in  passing,  the  question  which  is 
sometimes  raised:  What  connection  has  esthetic  appre- 
ciation with  the  desire  for  the  possession  of  the  beautiful 
object?  Undoubtedly  it  is  true  that  we  often  want  to 
own  the  things  which  we  consider  beautiful;  but  if  by 
possession  we  mean  the  merely  legal  ownership  and 
physical  control  of  a  thing,  then  we  can  see  that  this  does 
not  bring  one  any  nearer  to  the  object  in  an  intellectual 
or  in  an  emotional  way,  nor  allow  one  to  understand  it 
better.  The  artistic  person  who  has  seen  a  picture  may 
be  more  truly  in  possession  of  it  than  is  the  "patron  of 
art  "  to  whom  it  belongs.) 

Esthetic  Value  Is  Immediate,  not  Discursive.  By  this 
we  are  to  un(ierstand  that  our  liking  for  beauty  is  impul- 
sive, and  that  we  have,  or  need  have,  no  conscious 
ground  for  our  feeling,  outside  of  the  object  as  it  presents 
itself  to  our  senses.  This  liking  differs  from  a  reasoned 
conclusion  in  having  no  premises,  but  it  is  like  an  intuition 
of  truth.  It  differs  from  moral  approbation,  in  that  we 
do  not  think  of  any  law  as  being  fulfilled  by  it,  but  it  is 
like  a  divination  of  conscience.  In  other  words,  esthetic 
enjoyment  is  not  a  mediated  or  derived  value,  but  is  an 
immediate  feeling  of  value.  The  sensuous  element,  we 
should  remember,  is  always  vital  in  art,  and,  by  appeal- 
ing to  sense,  art  is  appealing  to  our  direct  instinctive 
valuations  rather  than  to  our  reasoned  ones.  When 
we  speak  of  esthetic  value  as  immediate  \wq  do  not 
mean  that  there  are  no  associations  or  intellectual 
suggestions  in  the  beautiful  object,  but  we  mean  that 
these  can  never  be  the  exclusive  ground  or  cause  of  its 
value. 


62  ORIGINS   AND   FUNCTIONS    OF   ART 

Esthetic  Judgment  Objective  and  Universal.  That 
which  is  objective  must  exist  in  some  sense  independently 
of  any  one  subject  who  observes  it.  The  observer  may 
come  and  go,  but  the  objective  thing  remains.  The  ob- 
server's belief  in  the  objective  thing  depends  largely  upon 
what  other  people  seem  to  believe  about  it.  If  one  per- 
son says  he  sees  an  object,  but  all  others  who  have  as 
good  opportunity  of  seeing  it  as  himself  unite  in  declar- 
ing that  nothing  is  really  there,  this  person  begins  to 
suspect  his  own  senses.  "Realness"  in  its  last  analysis 
is  a  social  matter.  Our  belief  in  an  objective  order 
reduces  to  a  belief  in  universal  opinion.  If  there  is  a 
property  by  virtue  of  which  an  object  seems  to  many  peo- 
ple to  exist,  it  has  more  realness  than  it  would  if  only  one 
person  credited  it.  (In  this  social  sense  we  get  back  to 
the  medieval  conception  of  "the  more  universality  the 
more  reality.")  Applying  the  principle  to  objects  of 
beauty,  wc  would  say  that  an  object  which  seems  to  many 
people  beautiful  is  beautiful.  If  a  thing  has  a  consid- 
erable degree  of  social  backing,  one  may  say  that  it  does 
exist  or  that  it  does  have  beauty.  Exactly  how  many 
persons  arc  necessary  to  give  this  backing  it  is  impossible 
to  say.  Furthermore,  it  cannot  be  denied  that  a  majority 
of  persons  may  be  in  the  wrong  and  a  minority  in  the 
right.  Nevertheless,  the  minority  is  itself  a  social  group, 
and  some  social  reference  is  implied  whenever  we  talk  of 
the  objective  and  the  universal.  To  say  that  esthetic 
consciousness  is  objective  and  universal  is  to  say  that  in 
the  appreciation  of  the  beautiful  we  are  concurring  in 
what  is,  or  will  some  day  be,  a  social  judgment,  and  that 
we  are  thus  directlv  sharing  in  the  life  of  the  race. 


ESTHETIC    CONSCIOUSNESS  63 

The  beautiful  object  is  universal  also  in  the  sense  that 
it  can  be  shared  simultaneously  by  a  large  group  of  peo- 
ple; whereas  many  other  pleasure-giving  things,  such  as 
foods,  must  be  reserved  for  purely  individual  consumption. 

Other  Characteristics  of  Esthetic  Consciousness.  All 
consciousness,  we  said  in  discussing  emotion,  has  a  motor 
aspect,  but  moments  of  esthetic  appreciation  are  among 
the  times  when  this  fact  is  most  apparent.  Groos's 
theory  that  esthetic  appreciation  is  an  "inner  imitation" 
of  the  beautiful  object,  and  Lipps's  theory  that  it  is  a 
"sympathetic  feeling,"  or  a  living  out  of  the  act  suggested 
by  the  object,  —  both  are  founded  on  the  fact  that  strong 
motor  tendencies  are  characteristically  present  in  mo- 
ments of  esthetic  enjoyment.  We  shall  hear  a  great  deal 
of  this  motor  aspect  in  connection  with  the  several  arts. 

Another  characteristic  of  esthetic  consciousness  is  its 
high  degree  of  suggestibility.  In  the  presence  of  some 
supremely  lovely  thing  one  becomes  like  a  child,  willing 
and  eager  to  take  any  suggestion  which  the  admired 
object  may  offer.  This  is  perhaps  but  another  phase 
of  the  objectivity  and  disinterestedness  of  our  feeling. 
At  any  rate  it  means  that  the  source  of  control  over  our- 
selves is  temporarily  shifted  to  the  outside  thing.  We 
are  under  its  sway. 

Function  of  Civilized  Art.  The  immediate  effect  of  art 
from  the  producer's  point  of  view  is  to  give  at  least  tempo- 
rary relief  from  the  emotional  experience  which  was  push- 
ing him.  When  the  artist  has  got  himself  down  in  color, 
or  marble,  or  in  words,  he  has  in  a  manner  shifted 
responsibility  from  himself  to  the  tangible  objective  me- 
dium.     He   is  then   free  to  forget   his  emotion;    for   he 


64  ORIGINS   AND    FUNCTIONS    OF   ART 

knows  that  he  can  come  back  to  it  again,  if  he  pleases, 
by  virtue  of  his  work  of  art.  The  experience  and  per- 
sonality of  the  modern  artist,  although  he  may  never  come 
into  direct  contact  with  his  public,  are  registered  in  the 
art-product  itself,  and  so  transmitted  to  his  public. 

From  the  point  of  view  of  the  admirer  or  amateur 
the  province  of  art  is  to  give  one  new  appearances  or 
fresh  imagery;  to  suggest  new  feelings  and  even  new 
ideas.  The  absorption  of  the  observer  in  the  work  of 
art  ought  in  some  way  to  change  his  life,  since  it  intro- 
duces a  new  element.  It  does  give  him  vicarious  experi- 
ence. A  social  cooperation  is  effected  between  the 
artist  and  his  public.  The  artist  has  the  knack  of  seeing 
and  feeling  things  and  of  fixing  them  in  their  emotional 
stage;  whereas  some  one  else  may  have,  better  than  he, 
the  power  of  taking  things  at  their  emotional  stage  and 
carrying  out  their  consequences.  For  example,  the  per- 
son who  can  best  catch  the  color  of  martial  enthusiasm 
and  perpetuate  it  in  a  battle-song  to  inspire  a  troop  of 
soldiers  is  not  usually  the  person  who  can  best  lead  that 
troop  through  the  manceuvers  of  a  victorious  campaign. 
The  artist  stirs  up  the  necessary  feeling,  but  it  lakes 
military  science  and  technique  to  guide  the  feeling  to  a 
successful  issue.  This  statement  that  art  is  the  stimu- 
lation to  new  activities  also  does  justice  to  the  recreative 
function  of  art.  Nothing  is  a  more  effectual  rest  than  a 
change  of  occupation,  and  the  work  of  art  gives  a  respite 
from  other  activity  by  occupying  the  mind  with  new  pro- 
jects or  suggestions 

In  primitive  art  the  emotional  and  technical  aspect 
of  leadership  had  not  been  separated.     The  dance,  which 


FUNCTION    OF   ART  65 

inspired  courage,  also  sliowed  the  movements  of  attack 
and  defense;  the  song,  which  worked  up  enthusiasm,  also 
specified  the  method  of  the  fight,  or  counted  over  the 
Aveapons  which  the  warrior  was  to  use.  Take  these  two 
Australian  war-songs:' 

1,  Spear  his  forehead, 
Spear  his  breast. 
Spear  his  h"ver. 
Spear  his  heart. 
Spear  his  loins, 

Spear  his  shoulder,  etc.,  etc. 

2.  Shield  of  Burru,  club  and  spear, 
Bring  the  throw-stick  of  Berar, 
The  broad  boomerang  of  Waroll, 
Belt,  tassel,  apron  of  Boodan: 
Up!  Spring,  and  take  good  aim 
With  the  straight-poised  emu-spear. 

Compare  with  these  "  The  Marseillaise,"  or  "  Bannock- 
burn:" 

Ye  sons  of  freedom,  wake  to  glory! 

Hark!  Hark!  what  myriads  bid  you  rise! 
Your  children,  wives,  and  grandsires  hoary. 

Behold  their  tears  and  hear  their  cries! 
Shall  hateful  tyrants,  mischiefs  breeding. 
With  hireling  hosts,  a  ruffian  band, 
Affright  and  desolate  the  land, 
While  peace  and  liberty  lie  bleeding?  etc. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victorie,  etc. 

*  I.  From  Grey,  vol.  ii,  p.  309;  2.  Honery,  Jour.  Anth.  Inst.,  vol.  vii, 
p.  245.     Both  quoted  by  Grosse. 


66  ORIGINS   AND    FUNCTIONS    OF   ART 

The  Striking  difference  between  the  two  kinds  of  song^ 
aside  from  the  greater  simplicity  of  the  primitive  ones, 
is  the  contrast  of  the  objective  and  technical  character 
of  the  primitive  songs  with  the  more  subjective  and  emo- 
tional nature  of  the  modern.  The  particulars  enumer- 
ated by  the  savage  singer  are  calculated  to  fix  in  mind 
the  details  .of-the  actual  motions  of  fighting;  whereas 
the  particulars  mentioned  in  the  modern  songs  — as  the 
tears  and  cries  of  children  —  are  calculated  to  rouse 
feeling  and  to  fix  the  soldier's  resolution.  Moreover, 
such  general  concepts  as  "freedom,"  "glory,"  "victory," 
appear  only  in  the  modern  songs.  Modern  art,  we  may 
say,  aims  at  an  emotional  and generic  type  of  stimulation, 
leaving  to  modern  science  the  business  of  guiding  such 
stimulation  by  specific  instruction.  Art,  as  Hegel  said, 
is  essentially  destined  to  manifest  the  general.  Its  func- 
tion is  the  quickening  of  emotional  life  and  its  enlarge- 
ment. This,  ultimately,  has  its  effect  upon  specific 
practical  activities;  but  the  remoteness  from  its  prac- 
tical issue  — the  length  of  the  process  — is  the  essential 
difference  between  the  function  of  primitive  art  and  the 
function  of  civilized  art. 

The  dissociation  of  the  art-product  from  special  occa- 
sions goes  hand  in  hand  with  the  generic  nature  of  its 
influence.  We  may  explain  what  "generic  stimulation" 
means  by  the  following  example.  Suppose  a  statue  of 
victory  to  stand  in  a  public  square.  We  may  conceive 
that  each  passer-by  is  moved  at  sight  of  the  statue  with 
a  thrill  of  exultant  feeling,  but  that  the  final  result  of 
this  feeling  is  different  in  each  case.  A  soldier  may  be 
reanimated   to  do  better  fighting,   a  musician  may  be 


FUNCTION    OF   ART  ^J 

inspired  to  write  a  triumphal  chorus,  a  student  to  over- 
come an  intellectual  problem,  a  vvoodchopper  to  fell  more 
trees,  and  so  on.  These  acts  which  it  ultimately  stimu- 
lates are  part  of  the  fmal  meaning  of  the  statue;  but  since 
these  actions  vary  so  much  in  detail,  and  since  they  can- 
not be  exactly  foreseen,  we  may  be  content  with  a  general 
expression  and  say  that  the  statue  stimulates  to  vigorous 
and  victorious  work. 

Reading  References. 

Tylor:  "Early  History  of  Mankind." 

Grosse:  "The  Beginnings  of  Art." 

Lang:  "Myth,  Ritual  and  Religion." 

Hirn:  "The  Origins  of  Art." 

BiJcHER:  "Arbeit  und  Rhythmus." 

Tufts:  "On  the  Genesis  of  the  Esthetic  Categories." 


CHAPTER    V 
RHYTHM 

Any  regularly  repeated  activity  or  event  is  rhythmi- 
cal in  the  wide  sense  of  that  term.  And  in  this  sense 
it  is  common  to  speak  of  rhythms  of  nature,  and  to  point 
out  how  very  many  of  the  phenomena  of  nature  are 
periodic — the  changes  of  the  seasons  and  of  day  and 
night,  the  flow  of  water,  the  growth  of  plants,  etc.,  etc. 
But  the  phenomena  which  we  consciously  experience  as 
rhythmic  are  much  more  limited  in  range.  We  do  not 
feel  the  periodicity  of  day  and  night,  or  of  winter  and  sum- 
mer, for  they  are  much  too  slow;  nor  could  we  feel  the 
periodicity  of  ether  vibrations,  for  they  are  much  too  fast. 
We  call  these  things  rhythms,  not  because  we  feel  them, 
but  because  we  infer  that  if  our  appreciation  of  time 
were  different  we  could  feel  these  vibrations  and  alter- 
nations as  rhythms.  We  will  turn  our  attention  to  those 
cases  where  we  do,  or  at  least  may,  really  feel  rhythm  as 
a  present  and  immediate  experience.  Before  describing 
the  nature  of  that  experience  it  will  be  necessary  to  have 
in  mind  certain  physiological  facts. 

Physiological  Rhythms.  Some  of  our  bodily  func- 
tions which  are  periodic  are  not  felt  by  us  to  be  so:  in 
some  cases  because  the  periods  are  too  slow  —  as  in  the 
alternations  of  sleeping  and  waking  —  and  in  other  cases 
because  the  function  is  not  felt  at  all,  as  in  the  case  of 
the  rhythmic  movements  of  the  intestines  in  digestion. 

68 


PHYSIOLOGICAL    RHYTHMS  69 

There  are  periodic  functions  which  we  may  definitely 
feel  as  rhythmic.  Such  are  the  beating  of  the  pulse,  the 
movements  of  respiration,  and  such  activities  as  walking, 
swimming,  dancing.  Even  such  voluntary  actions  as 
speaking  or  singing  take  on  rhythmic  form.  Indeed,  all 
activity  when  repeated  tends  to  become  automatic  and 
regular,  and  this  is,  biologically,  an  economic  device  for 
gaining  efficiency.  When  we  say,  however,  that  all  acts 
become  regular  we  must  not  understand  that  they  become 
fixed  in  an  absolutely  inflexible  regularity.  Our  physio- 
logical rhythms  may  be  varied  in  rate,  that  is,  they  can 
be  quickened  or  slackened  within  certain  limits,  and  irregu- 
larities can  be  occasionally  introduced  without  destroying 
their  automatic  character. 

Fluctuations  of  Attention.  Not  only  is  there  a  marked 
periodicity  in  physiological  processes,  but  it  appears  also 
in  the  psychical  process  of  attention.  Attention  con- 
tinually shifts  or  fluctuates.  If  we  watch  carefully  we 
notice  that  while  trying  to  attend  to  some  simple  sensory 
impression  we  have  either  found  some  new  phase  in  the 
object  to  which  we  are  attending,  or  we  have  wandered 
away  mentally,  while  it  is  only  our  sense-organ  which  is 
still  directed  toward  the  source  of  stimulation.  If  we 
take  as  the  object  of  attention  some  liminal  stimulus —  a 
barely  visible  patch  of  gray  or  a  just  audible  tone  —  we 
find  that,  though  the  stimulus  remains  objectively  the 
same,  it  seems  to  be  now  present,  now  absent,  then  pres- 
ent and  then  absent  again.  These  pulses  of  attention 
vary  somewhat  in  duration  according  to  the  conditions 
under  which  they  are  observed,  but  the  longest  that  we  can 
hold  to  a  really  single  impression  is  about  three  seconds. 


70  RHYTHM 

Subjective  Rhythm.  If  one  listens  for  some  time  to 
the  ticking  of  a  clock  or  the  beating  of  a  metronome,  it 
becomes  next  to  impossible  not  to  hear  the  sounds  in 
groups.  Bolton  made  experiments  in  which  his  subjects 
listened  to  many  series  of  telephone  clicks.  (Telephone 
clicks  are  more  exactly  alike  objectively  than  are  the  beats 
of  a  metronome.)  In  such  a  series  of  sounds,  which  are 
just  ahke  in  quality,  intensity  and  duration,  the  subject 
perceives  after  a  time  (not,  as  a  rule,  immediately),  a 
certain  regular  grouping.  In  order  to  produce  this 
feeling  of  grouping  a  certain  rapidity  of  succession  in 
the  sounds  is  necessary.  The  upper  and  lower  limits  of 
this  rate  are  about  one-tenth  of  a  second  and  one  second 
respectively.  If  sounds  come,  that  is,  faster  than  ten 
in  a  second  or  slower  than  one  in  a  second  (Wundt  gives 
the  slow  limit  as  one  in  four  seconds)  the  immediate 
consciousness  of  grouping  is  lost.  As  several  observers 
report,  the  type  of  grouping  depends  upon  the  absolute 
rate  of  speed :  when  the  rate  is  slow  the  subject  hears  the 
sounds  usually  by  twos  and  threes;  then  as  the  speed 
increases  he  tends  to  hear  the  sounds  in  fours,  sixes  and 
eights.  Grouping  by  two,  four  and  eight  comes  more 
easily  than  by  three  and  six.  Grouping  by  five  and  seven 
is  unnatural,  and,  when  possible  at  all,  requires  effort. 
Subjective  rhythm  in  general  arises  involuntarily,  and 
according  to  some  observers  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  it. 
But  the  form  of  the  rhythm  may  often  be  changed 
voluntarily  and  by  suggestion.  Some  writers  (Miner 
and  Squire)  say  that  grouping  without  any  accent  is  an 
early  form  of  rhythm,  but  as  a  usual  thing  an  accent  or 
intensive  stress  is  present.     The  natural  location  of  the 


SUBJECTIVE   AND    OBJECTIVE   RHYTHM  7 1 

accent  is  on  the  first  beat  of  the  measure,  thus  giving 
trochaic  i  .  or  dactyhc  i  .  .  measure.  When  two  grades 
of  accent  are  present,  as  is  often  the  case  in  three-  and 
four-part  measure,  the  natural  form  is  (after  Macdougall) 
'J  i  .  for  the  dactyl  .  1  '^  for  the  anapest,  and  .  '.'  1  for  the 
amphibrach.  For  four-part  measure  the  accent  runs 
either  'J  .  i  .  or  .  i  .  L'  . 

Subjective  rhythmizing  occurs  not  merely  when  a 
person  hears  a  series  of  sounds,  but  also  when  he 
sees  a  series  of  hght-flashes.  Miner's  experiments  call 
attention  to  this  less  well-known  fact.  In  watching 
a  series  of  objectively  similar  flashes  of  light  the  observer 
interprets  every  second,  third,  fourth,  etc.,  as  the  bearer 
of  an  accent,  only,  in  case  of  lights,  the  accent  means 
greater  brightness. 

Objectively  Determined  Rhythms.  Objective  rhythm 
may  be  introduced  into  a  series  by  regularly  varying 
some  of  the  elements  either  in  intensity,  quality  or  dura- 
tion. When  there  is  an  intensive  accent  on  every  other 
sound  the  series  may  be  heard  cither  as  trochaic  or 
iambic,  but  it  is  more  easily  and  naturally  heard  as 
trochaic.  When  there  is  intensive  accent  on  every  third 
sound  the  series  may  be  heard  as  dactylic,  or  anapestic 
or  even  as  amphibrachic;  but  it  is  most  easily  heard  as 
dactylic,  and  most  hardly  as  amphibrachic.  Intensive 
or  stress  accent  is  characteristic  of  the  Teutonic  languages, 
but  along  with  this  stress  accent  there  goes  a  lengthening 
of  the  element  on  which  it  falls.  In  speaking,  one  tends 
to  dwell  a  little  on  the  accented  syllables,  and  in  listening 
to  a  mechanical  series  of  sounds,  or  watching  a  series  of 
lights,  the  tendency  is  to  feel  an  illusion  of  duration  on 


72  RHYTHM 

the  part  of  the  accented  elements.  Accent  seems  to 
entail  longer  duration,  since  the  spoken  word,  if  loud, 
really  does  last  longer,  and  the  loud  sound  and  bright 
light  seem  to  do  so. 

The  rhythm  of  a  series  is  altered  also  by  the  duration 
of  the  sounds  themselves  or  by  the  length  of  the  pauses 
which  separate  them.  When  every  second  sound  is 
longer  than  its  alternate  the  series  seems  to  be  more 
easily  heard  as  iambic  rather  than  trochaic  (Bolton),  just 
the  reverse  of  the  case  with  intensive  accent.  When 
every  third  sound  is  lengthened  the  measure  is  heard 
most  readily  as  anapestic.  When  there  is  a  difiference 
introduced  into  the  pauses  of  a  series  those  sounds  which 
stand  nearest  together  in  time  are  grouped  together. 
There  is  a  tendency  to  accent  a  syllable  which  precedes  a 
relatively  long  pause.  Syncopation  has  this  tendency  to 
put  accent  on  the  cut-off  syllable.  The  effect  of  this 
tendency  would  be  to  transfer  accent  to  the  last  syllable 
of  a  foot  and  so  to  make  iambic  or  anapestic  measure. 
Accent  by  duration  of  syllables  is  characteristic  of  Greek 
and  Latin  verse. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  qualitative  change  which  may 
constitute  the  accent  in  an  auditory  series,  namely,  pitch 
and  clang-tint.  Change  in  quality  of  sounds  is  often 
interpreted  as  a  change  in  intensity.  A  tone  of  high 
pitch  and  a  tone  of  brilliant  quality  are  likely  to  appear 
relatively  intense. 

Aside  from  these  purely  formal  ways  of  accenting  a 
series  there  is  the  possibility  of  logical  or  expressive 
emphasis.  Rhythm  as  we  actually  find  it  in  poetry  and 
music   is  often  greatly  modified  by  the  idea  which   is 


FORMS    OF    RHYTHM  "Jl 

being  expressed.  Words  are  not  like  telephone  clicks; 
they  differ  in  logical  importance.  Some  of  them  are  so 
"loaded"  by  their  significance  that  the  accent  which  gives 
proper  meaning  to  a  verse  is  quite  different  from  that 
which  the  formal  structure  prescribes.  The  same  thing 
is  tiue  in  the  rhythms  of  music  and  of  the  dance. 

Complex  Forms  of  Rhythm.  There  are  only  two 
rhythmic  units,  namely,  the  two-  and  the  three-syllabled 
foot.  All  other  kinds  break  up  into  these.  Groups  of 
four  have  a  secondary  accent  which  breaks  them  into 
twos,  whereas  groups  of  six  have  cither  three  twos  or  two 
thiees,  and  so  on.  Macdougall  shows  that  a  group  like 
this,  r  I*  r  r  *^  *^  which  looks  like  an  exception,  since 
the  four  notes  are  not  grouped  by  twos,  is  really  equiva- 
lent to  a  group  of  two  threes,  because,  for  good  effect,  a 
pause  is  required  after  the  fourth  note  which  makes  the 
measure  last  for  six  beats. 

Rhythm  and  Work.  When  physical  work  is  performed 
in  a  rhythmical  manner  it  gains  greatly  in  efficiency. 
The  historical  evidence  for  this  is  the  widespread  custom 
among  primitive  peoples  of- having  some  one  to  keep  time 
for  them  as  they  work.  This  custom,  which  we  have 
already  heard  of,  is  the  response  to  the  felt  need  for 
order  and  regularity  in  work.  Experiment  also  shows  the 
advantage  of  rhythmic  form  in  work.  Awramoff  found 
ii  hard  to  compare  rhythmic  with  unrhythmic  work 
because  his  subjects  tended  in  so  short  a  time  to  fall 
into  rhythmic  habits.  He  found,  however,  that  different 
tempos  in  his  rhytlims  made  a  difference  in  the  amount 
of  work  performed.  In  general,  the  faster  the  rhythm 
the  greater  the  quantity  which  can  be  accomplished  in  a 


74  RHYTHM 

given  time.  It  might  be  supposed  that  in  an  unhurried 
rhythm  one  would  make  the  single  strokes  of  work  enough 
stronger  to  make  up  for  the  greater  length  of  time,  but  this 
is  not  the  case.  The  quality  of  work,  on  the  contrary, 
is  better  when  the  worker  is  allowed  to  select  his  own 
tempo.  Objectively  marked  rhythm  facilitates  muscular 
action  because  it  hastens  and  reinforces  the  already 
present  tendency  toward  automatism. 

Alental  as  well  as  physical  work  is  facilitated  by  the 
presence  of  rhythm.  The  "span  of  attention,"  or  the 
number  of  impressions  which  can  be  felt  together  in  con- 
sciousness, is  enlarged  if  these  impressions  are  rhythmi- 
cally grouped.  Thus,  according  to  Wundt  and  others, 
it  is  possible  to  hold  in  mind  at  the  same  time,  i.e.,  to 
apprehend  as  a  unified  whole,  as  many  as  forty  metro- 
nome sounds,  provided  these  are  felt  as  groups  of  five 
eights  or  eight  fives.  Then,  too,  the  work  of  memorizing 
is  appreciably  lightened  by  the  presence  of  rhythm. 
Miiller  and  Schumann,  M.  K.  Smith  and  others  report 
that  the  material  to  be  memorized  is  felt  to  be  bound 
together  by  the  rhythm,  and  that  the  rapidity  of  learning 
is  thereby  greatly  increased.  Rhythm,  then,  when  intro- 
duced into  an  activity  already  going  on  augments  the 
effectiveness  of  the  activity. 

It  is  also  true  that  rhythm  in  an  external  phenomenon, 
i.e.,  a  perceived,  as  distinct  from  a  produced  rhythm, 
tends  to  start  up  rhythmical  motor  responses  in  the 
organism  of  the  observer.  For  example  a  person 
listening  to  a  series  of  metronome  sounds  will  keep  time 
by  involuntary  movements  of  head,  tongue,  foot,  hand 
or  what  not.     This  keeping  time  does  not  mean  that 


MOTOR   THEORY   OF   RHYTHM  75 

there  is  necessarily  a  separate  movement  for  every  sound. 
One  movement  may  cover  several  sounds,  and  it  depends 
largely  on  the  rate  of  speed  of  the  sounds  how  many  will 
be  included  in  each  muscular  beat. 

Rhythm  a  Motor  Phenomenon.  Recent  investigation 
tends  to  show  that  the  conscious  appreciation  of  rhythm 
is  a  result  of  muscular  activities  like  those  just  mentioned. 
Stetson  writes:  ^  "Every  rhythm  is  dynamic;  it  consists 
of  actual  movements.  It  is  not  necessary  that  joints  be 
involved,  but  changes  in  muscular  conditions  which 
stand  in  consciousness  as  movements  are  essential  to  any 
rhythm,  whether  'perceived'  or  'produced.'"  This 
would  mean  that  the  real  group  feeling  depends  upon 
sensations  from  our  own  motor  apparatus.  We  get  back 
here  to  a  conception  very  like  the  one  which  underlies 
James's  theory  of  emotion.  We  start  with  a  sensory 
stimulus — a  series  of  sounds;  these  start  up  a  series  of 
rhythmic  muscular  reactions,  and  it  is  the  feel  of  these 
reactions  which  gives  us  the  real  "feel"  of  grouping  in 
the  external  series  of  sounds. 

Certain  experiments  made  by  Miner  show  the  effect 
of  muscular  activity  upon  our  manner  of  perceiving 
external  things.  He  showed  to  his  subjects  a  series  of 
light-fiashes,  and  directed  them  to  beat  time  to  the  series. 
It  was  noticed  that  a  forcible  movement  on  their  part 
made  the  flash  of  light  with  which  it  coincided  appear  to 
them  objectively  brighter.  Miner  explains  subjective 
rhythmization  as  an  illusion  of  intensity,  in  which  the 
subject  interprets  the  tension  in  his  own  muscles  as  an 

'  "  A  Motor  Theory  of  Rhythm  and  Discrete  Succession."  Psy. 
Rev.,  vol.  xii. 


76  RHYTHM 

objective  accent  in  the  series  of  impressions  which  are 
being  rhythmizecl. 

Rhythm  and  Emotion.  A  rhythmic  stimulus  which 
is  strongly  and  persistently  presented  often  has  the  effect 
of  working  people  up  to  a  pitch  of  great  excitement. 
The  form  of  discharge  for  this  excitement,  and  its  emo- 
tional meaning,  depend  in  part  upon  what  the  content 
of  the  stimulus  is.  If  the  stimulus  is  the  sound  of  a  war- 
drum,  and  if  other  incitements  to  combat  are  present,  the 
resulting  emotion  is  likely  to  be  a  fighting  one.  If  the 
stimulus  is  a  rehgious  hymn  or  exhortation  of  a  rhythmic 
nature,  then  the  emotion  tends  to  be  a  religious  one. 
Pure  rhythm  by  itself  may,  however,  be  expressive  of  some 
emotional  states.  Wundt  says  that  rhythm  is  an  emotion, 
but  it  is  probably  truer  to  say  that  rhythm  carries  with  it 
a  strong  excitement,  and  that  it  is  capable  of  expressing 
certain  general  emotional  conditions.  Irregularities  of 
rhythm  are  often  indicative  of  emotional  meaning,  since 
they  suggest  an  interruption  of  activity. 

Esthetic  Value  of  Different  Tempos.  The  range  of 
tempos  which  give  esthetic  eft'ect  is  indicated  roughly 
on  the  register  of  the  ordinary  metronome.  It  lies 
between  forty  and  upward  of  tw^o  hundred  beats  to 
the  minute.  The  musical  terms  w^hich  designate  these 
tempos  also  suggest  their  esthetic  effect.  The  reader 
will  remember  that  these  terms  are:  Largo,  meaning 
broadly  or  largely;  larghetto,  or  somewhat  broadly;  adagio, 
slowly  and  softly;  andante,  moving  or  going;  allegretto, 
somewhat  quickly;  allegro,  cheerfully,  merrily,  gaily;  and 
presto,  meaning  nimbly  or  very  quickly.  The  slower 
time  gives  one  the  sense  of  mass,  dignity  and  solemnity; 


ESTHETICS    OF   DIFFERENT   TEMPOS  JJ 

the  middle  tempos  are  better  described  as  flowing  and 
graceful;  their  effect  is  that  of  ease,  poise  and  control, 
for  they  are  without  the  heaviness  of  slow  measure  or 
the  haste  of  fast  time.  The  quick  tempos  are  vivacious 
and  stimulating.  When  conjoined  with  strong  sounds, 
movements  or  words  they  are  intensely  stirring;  and 
when  associated  with  lighter  material  they  are  sprightly, 
pretty  and  a  little  pert..  These  impressions  may  be 
explained  as  phenomena  of  attention  and  expectation. 
In  slow  measure  one  gets  relatively  little  stimulation 
within  a  given  time;  attention  must  be  voluntarily  sus- 
tained, and  there  is  a  period  of  conscious  holding  over 
from  accent  to  accent,  a  feeling  of  being  suspended 
without  adequate  support.  This  demand  upon  the  sub- 
ject's effort  is  what  gives  to  slow  tempo  its  effect  of 
heaviness  and  gravity.  The  funeral  march  is  an  example 
of  perhaps  the  slowest  rhythm  which  can  be  used  for 
artistic  purposes.  In  the  first  movement  of  Chopin's 
March,  although  the  tempo  is  fast  enough  to  give  the 
feeling  of  grouping,  yet  it  gives  also  the  feeling  of  the 
silences  and  tragic  suspense  between  notes.  The  middle 
tempos,  ranging  from  70  to  150  beats  approximately, 
or  over  the  larghetto,  adagio  and  andante,  have  been 
called,  above,  the  easy,  graceful,  controlled  tempos.  It 
is  probable  that  the  agreeable  sense  of  ease  attaches  to 
these  rates  because  they  are  the  natural  rates  of  certain 
important  physiological  rhythms.  Thus,  the  heart-beat 
is  within  the  larghetto  range,  and  a  good  rate  for  walking, 
marching  and  dancing  is  from  90  to  100.  Agreeable 
rates  for  running,  for  some  kinds  of  dancing  and  for 
speech   would   be    considerably   faster.     In   Awramoff's 


78  RHYTHM 

research,  where  subjects  had  to  lift  light  weights  with 
their  fingers,  the  tempos  chosen  by  the  subjects  as  most 
agreeable  for  such  work  lay  between  70  and  100  beats  per 
minute.  Rapid  tempos  tend  to  stimulate  rapid  move- 
ments and  to  suggest  the  hurry  and  excitement  incident  to 
them.  With  rapid  tempo,  attention  is  involuntarily  sus- 
tained. A  quick  series  gives  more  shocks  to  the  minute 
than  a  slow  one,  the  notes  come  pouring  in  on  the  ear 
before  they  have  been  anticipated,  and  it  is  this  quantity 
of  stimulation  and  the  surprise  of  it  which  gives  the 
lively  exhilaration  of  allegro  and  presto.  With  tempos 
much  faster  than  these  there  comes  the  painful  effort  of 
trying  to  keep  up. 

Esthetic  Character  of  Two-Part  Measure.  Grouping 
by  twos  is  the  simplest  form  of  rhythm,  and  in  verse,  at 
least,  it  has  remained  the  most  popular.  There  is  not 
only  simplicity,  but  also  strength  and  deliberation  in 
two-part  grouping.  One  reason  why  this  rhythm  seems 
simple  and  natural  is  that  so  many  of  our  ordinary  move- 
ments fall  into  it.  There  are  the  movements  of  the 
legs  and  the  alternate  swing  of  the  arms  in  walking  or 
running.  There  are  the  movements  which  involve  two 
phases — the  lifting-dropping,  pushing-pulling,  extending- 
flexing  movements.  These  phases,  Biicher  says,  corre- 
spond with  the  arsis  and  thesis  of  the  verse-foot.  Two-part 
measure  may  be  called  "deliberate"  in  view  of  the  fact 
that  it  naturally  goes  with  a  slow  tempo.  Subjective 
rhythmizing,  it  will  be  remembered,  takes  place  by  twos 
when  the  objective  series  is  a  slow  one.  For  Bolton's 
subjects  it  came  when  the  sounds  followed  each  other  at 
the  rate  of  .795,  i.e.,  about  75  per  minute  or  larghetto  time. 


CHARACTER    OF   TWO-PART   MEASURE  79 

The  possible  varieties  of  two-part  measure  are,  to  use 
the   verse-terms,   trochaic  ±  w,    iambic  ^  -L,   spondaic 

and  pyrrhic  ww     The  spondee,  however,  and  the 

pyrrhic  foot  cannot  maintain  themselves  in  a  series  of  any 
length,  because  both  the  reader  of  them  and  tlie  hearer 
tend  to  put  an  accent  on  one  of  the  two  syllables  and 
hence  to  make  the  foot  into  a  trochee  or  an  iamb.  As 
an  individual  foot  the  spondee  gives  an  effect  of  firmness 
and  solidity;  the  pyrrhic,  of  lightness  and  delicacy. 

Trochaic  measure  is  characteristic  of  early  English 
poetry.  In  our  language,  therefore,  it  is  a  more  primitive 
form  than  the  iambic.  It  has  been  called  more  "  indepen- 
dent "  than  the  iambic,  and  it  seems  to  give  a  more 
straightforward  and  naive  effect.  It  is  more  simple  to 
begin  with  the  important  syllable  and  to  let  the  unimpor- 
tant follow;  more  artful  to  begin  with  the  unimportant 
and  to  let  the  important  follow.  The  iambic  by  this 
latter  plan  works  up  to  a  climax  and  so  gains  in  dramatic 
effect.  Someone  says:  "The  trochee  starts  forward 
from  impulse,  the  iambus  pauses  for  reflection."  Iambic 
measures  produce  an  effect  somewhat  more  rapid  than  the 
trochaic,  an  effect  which  is  explained  on  the  basis  of  an 
illusion  mentioned  above.  The  pause  which  follows  an 
accented  sound  seems  shorter  than  it  would  because  the 
accented  sound  appears  to  last  over,  and  for  this  reason  the 
feet  in  an  iambic  line  seem  close  together  and  the  line 
faster.  Another  illusion  should  be  noticed  here,  since  it 
helps  to  emphasize  the  difference  in  character  between 
trochee  and  iamb.  A  loud  tone  sometimes  gives  the 
impression  of  being  higher  in  pitch  than  a  soft  tone  of  the 
same  vibration  rate.     There  is  also  a  tendency  in  spoken 


8o  RHYTHM 

rhythms  to  raise  the  pitch  when  the  force  of  a  tone  in- 
creases. These  two  facts  would  lead  us  to  associate 
trochaic  measure  with  falling  inflection,  since  each  foot 
would  tend  to  start  high  and  end  low,  and  to  associate 
iambic  measure  with  rising  pitch  or  inflection,  since  each 
foot  would  tend  to  start  low  and  end  high.  Of  course, 
when  rhythms  are  applied  in  music  and  in  poetry  many 
other  factors  modify  these  tendencies,  but  as  a  distinction 
between  the  abstract  forms  they  hold  good. 

Three-Part  Measure.  The  attempt  has  been  made 
to  derive  three-part  from  two-part  measure.  The  evolu- 
tion is  supposed  to  have  taken  place  through  such  a  series 

as  this:  i.  P*  2.  ^i  3.  |  |  |  .  Biicher,^  on  the  other 
hand,  derives  three-part  measure  from  such  work-move- 
ments as  the  smith  uses  in  hammering  at  his  forge.  But, 
whatever  its  source,  the  grouping  by  threes  seems  to  us 
now  sufficiently  natural  and  spontaneous.  In  three-part 
measure  the  tones  or  syllables  usually  follow  one  another 
more  quickly  than  in  two-part  measure.  The  rate  at 
which  subjective  rhythmizing  naturally  goes  by  threes 
is  .460,  i.e.,  about  130  beats  per  minute  or  andante  tempo. 
Three-part  time  does  not  at  all  suggest  the  firmness  and 
solidity  of  two-part  measure,  but  rather  something  light, 
graceful  and  subtle.  It  has  more  gradation.  It  also 
gives  a  better  effect  of  finish  and  poise.  In  this  foot  -^  ^ 
and  in  this  -^  -^  there  is  a  complete  subordination  of  the 
light  syllable  to  the  strong  one,  and  hence  a  want  of 
balance  between  the  two  parts  of  the  foot.  In  this  —  ^  w 
on  the  contrary,  or  this -^  ^  -^orthis^  -'-  ^thetwolight 

'  Op.  cit. 


CHARACTER    OF   THREE-PART    MEASURE  8 1 

syllables  form    a    kind   of   counterpoise   for   the   strong 
one.^ 

The  same  points  which  distinguish  trochaic  from 
iambic  rhythm  hold  good  of  dactylic  as  against  ana- 
pestic.  The  dactyl  with  its  strong  beat  first  is  more 
impulsive,  whereas  the  anapest,  like  the  iamb,  approaches 
a  climax.  Anapestic  verses  also  seem  to  gain  time  as  , 
they  go.  Amphibrachic  measure  w  —  w  is  hard  to  keep 
in  form,  as  it  tends  to  pass  into  dactylic  or  anapestic. 
The  remedy  for  this  would  be  to  lengthen  the  pause 
between  the  feet,  and  the  result  of  this  would  be  to  break 
up  the  continuity  of  the  verse,  to  isolate  each  unit  and 
so  to  produce  a  lengthening  of  the  line.  The  amphimacer 
—  w  —  has  its  light  and  strong  syllables  greatly  out  of 
proportion,  and  it,  too,  like  the  amphibrach,  would 
require  a  slight  pause  between  the  feet  in  order  to  keep 
in  form. 

We  cannot  omit  from  a  discussion  of  this  kind  the 
famous  lines  of  Coleridge  on  "Metrical  Feet:  " 

Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short; 

From  long  to  long  in  solemn  sort 

Slow  Spondee  stalks;  strong  foot!   yet  ill  able 

Ever  to  come  up  with  dactyl  trisyllable. 

'  Hurst  and  McKay  insist  on  a  characteristic  difference  between 
dactyl  and  anapest  apart  from  the  position  of  accent.  They  write 
(Univ.  of  Toronto  Studies,  vol.  i):  "  Meumann  says  :  '  Dactylic  lines  may 
be  read  with  anapestic  movements  and  vice  versa,'  —  implying  that  there 
is  no  essential  difference  between  a  dactylic  and  an  anapestic  line,  ex- 
cepting the  fact  that  the  dactylic  line  happens  to  begin  with  an  accented 
syllable.  .  .  .  There  is  a  real  internal  difference  in  the  foot.  The 
anapestic  foot  begins  with  two  short  syllables  (the  second  of  which  is  in 
every  case  longer  than  the  first),  followed  by  a  long  syllable.  .  .  . 
The  anapestic  foot  is  a  group  in  an  ascending  order  of  importance,  the 
dactylic  in  a  descending." 


82  RHYTHM 

la^mbics  march  from  short  to  long;  — 

With  a  leap  and  a  bound  the  swift  Anapests  throng; 

One  syllable  long,  with  one  short  at  each  side, 

Amphibrachys  hastes  with  a  stately  stride;  — 

First  and  last  being  long,  middle  short,  Amphiraacer 

Strikes  his  thundering  hoofs  like  a  proud,  high-bred  racer. 

Rhythm  as  an  Art-Form.  Rhythm,  as  we  have  just 
seen,  is  capable  in  some  degree  of  reflecting  or  objec- 
tifying certain  phases  of  emotional  experience.  Its  motor 
basis  gives  it  common  ground  with  emotional  experience. 
Itmayseem  asif  pure  rhythm  is  too  simple  a  phenomenon, 
too  restricted  in  content,  to  be  called  an  art-medium;  but 
the  compound  rhythms — the  forms  in  which  the  elements 
are  arranged  into  large  and  complex  wholes  —  offer  the 
observer  material  for  esthetic  enjoyment,  and  the  artist 
scope  for  his  creative  imagination.  We  shall  find  the 
complex  forms  in  the  evolution  of  music,  dance  and 
poetry.  Rhythm  affords  stimulation,  as  an  art-work 
should,  and  it  is,  in  general,  a  means  to  fuller  and  more 
efficient  activity. 

Reading  References 

Bolton:   "Rhythm,"  Am.  Jour.  Psy.,  vol.  vi, 

Meumann:  "Untersuchungen  zur  Psy.  u.  Aest.  d.  Rhythmus," 
Phil.  Stud.  X. 

Allex:  "  Physiological  Esthetics." 

Bucher:  "Arbeit  u.  Rhythmus." 

Miner:  "  Motor,  Visual  and  Applied  Rhythms,"  Psy.  Rev.  Mon. 
Supplement,  vol.  v. 

Stetson:  "  A  Motor  Theory  of  Rhythm  and  Discrete  Succes- 
sion," Psy.  Rev.,  vol.  xii. 

Macdougall:  "  The  Structure  of  Simple  Rhythm  Forms," 
Psy.  Rev.  Mon.  Suppl.  iv. 


RHYTHM  83 

Smith:   "  Rhythmus  u.  Arbeit,"  Phil.  Stud.,  xvl. 

Awromoff:    "Arbeit  u.  Rhythmus,"  Phil.  Stud.,  xviii. 

Hurst  and  jNIcKay:  "  Experiments  on  Time  Relations  of 
Poetical  Metres,"  Univ.  of  Toronto  Studies,  vol.  i. 

Wallin:  "  Researches  on  the  Rhythm  of  Speech."  Studies  from 
Yale  Psy.  Lab.,  1902. 


CHAPTER    VI 

THE    DANCE 

Definition.  The  dance  may  be  broadly  defined  as  a 
series  of  rhythmic  movements  which  arc  to  some  extent 
indicative  of  feeling.  This  is  general  enough  to  include 
both  the  dancing  of  the  orient,  which  sometimes  means 
movement  of  arms  and  trunk,  but  not  of  legs  and  feet,  and 
the  dancing  of  western  peoples,  which  sometimes  means 
movement  of  legs  and  feet,  but  no  considerable  move- 


FlG.    I. 

ment  of  arms  or  trunk.  In  the  dance,  as  in  every  art,  it 
is  possible  to  distinguish  the  formal  from  the  expressive 
aspect.  Dancing  expresses  certain  interests  and  feelings, 
but  the  instrument  of  this  expression  is  the  human  form 
in  rhythmic  motion;  hence  the  finished  form  of  the  dance 
must  exhibit  some  characteristics  of  emotional  attitudes, 
but  these  attitudes  must  be  modified  by  the  demand  for 
ease  and  pure  gracefulness  of  movement.  Some  dances 
will  show  the  tendency  to  sacrifice  form  to  expression; 
these    are    the    imitative   or    realistic    dances.     Others 

84 


EXPRi:SSIVE   ELEMENT   IN   THE   DANCE  8$ 

will  tend  to  sacrifice  expression  to  form,  and  these  are 
the  ornamental  or  purely  graceful  dances,  —  we  might 
call  them  the  purely  decorative  ones. 

A  thoroughly  realistic  dance  is  one  in  which  some 
practical  situation  is  mimicked  or  reinstated.  Some 
exciting  moment  of  real  life  is  presented,  and  the  motions 
by  which  one  would  respond  to  the  occasion  are  carried 
out  by  the  dancer,  as  in  Fig.  i.^ 

"This  dance,"  writes  Strutt,"  "  is  executed  by  a  female; 
and  probably  the  perfection  of  the  dance  consisted  in 
approaching  and  receding  from  the  bear  with  great 
agility,  so  as  to  prevent  his  seizing  upon  her,  and  occa- 
sioning any  interruption  to  the  performance,  which  the 
animal,  on  the  other  hand,  appears  to  be  exceedingly 
desirous  of  effecting,  being  unmuzzled  for  the  purpose, 
and  irritated  by  the  scourge  of  the  juggler."  This  dance 
shows  a  form  not  wholly  differentiated  from  primitive 
drama.  The  interest  of  the  spectator  Avould  lie  chiefly 
in  the  situation  itself  and  in  the  supposed  emotion  of  the 
dancer  in  eluding  the  bear.  The  motions  of  the  dance 
would  have,  in  this. case,  a  specific  meaning  derived  from 
the  particular  situation.  If,  however,  the  visible  signs  or 
"  properties"  of  the  situation  —in  this  case  the  irritated 
bear  —  were  eliminated,  we  should  then  have  more 
abstract  conditions.  The  interest  of  the  spectator  would 
be  centered  more  upon  the  agreeable  effect  of  the  motions 
themselves;  the  ornamental  character,  or  immediate  ap- 
pearance of  the  dance,  would   become   more  apparent. 

'  From  Strutt's  "  Sports  and  Pastimes."    Copied  from  an  early  man- 
uscript. 
'  Ihid. 


86  THE   DANCE 

The  dance  would  still  represent  the  action  and  feeling 
incident  to  fear  and  flight,  but  it  would  then  have  emerged 
from  a  dramatic  setting  into  an  independent  form  with  an 
imitative  motive. 

An  illustration  of  the  more  purely  decorative  type  of 
dance  is  found  in  the  "serpentine,"  Fig.  2.*  This  dance 


Fig.  2. 

did  not  grow  out  of  the  representation  of  any  crucial 
episode  or  any  special  emotion;  its  purpose  is  to  give 
occasion  for  graceful  rhythmic  movements  by  the  dancer, 
and  for  the  changing  curves  of  the  drapery.  It  may  be 
regarded   as   an   almost  purely  decorative  performance. 

As  a  rule  these  two  types  of  dance  are  more  distinct  in 
theory  than  in  practice.  In  many  dances  both  mimetic 
and  ornamental  movements  are  made,  and  in  any  perfect 
artistic  form  the  decorative  and  the  expressive  interests 
should  be  thoroughly  harmonized. 

Psychological  Explanation  of  the  Origin  of  the  Dance. 
According  to  the  theory  which  regards  emotion  as  the 

'  From  Reznicek's  "  Der  Tanz." 


PSYCHOLOGICAL   ORIGLNT    OF   THE   DANCE  8/ 

result  of  conflicting  impulses,  the  existence  of  any  emotion 
implies  energy  which  has  been  diverted  from  an  ordinary 
pathway  of  escape,  and  which  must  therefore  find  some 
new  avenue  of  discharge.  To  take  a  particular  case,  let 
us  imagine  a  properly  stimulated  person  to  have  started 
forward  in  an  attitude  of  attack.  If  the  enemy  offers  but 
a  weak  resistance,  the  act  of  retaliation  is  shortly  com- 
pleted and  does  not  rise  far  into  the  ideational  oremotional 
level.  But  if  the  enemy  looms  up  as  a  terrific  force,  our 
person's  instinct  of  fear  is  roused  and  tends  to  check  his 
advance.  The  fighting  instinct  held  up  in  this  way  be- 
comes a  conscious  emotion  of  anger,  and  what  would 
have  been  an  overt  act  remains  merely  an  attitude.  The 
result  is  an  angry  man  in  a  fighting  posture.  Now  the 
person  who  wants  to  do  a  thing,  and  dares  not,  finds 
a  comfort  in  going  repeatedly  as  far  as  he  does  dare. 
Repeated  postures,  threats  and  lunges  thus  tend  to  take 
the  place  of  the  real  fight.  The  attitude  becomes  in  itself 
an  end,  and  the  repetition  of  this  attitude,  should  it 
become  rhythmical,  constitutes  a  dance.  By  exercising 
himelf  in  the  postures  and  movements  of  a  fight  a  man 
tends  to  fix  his  resolution  and  to  augment  his  strength 
for  future  combats.  This  account  applies  to  the  origin 
of  such  dances  as  have  a  specific  emotional  motive. 

The  purely  "gymnastic"  element  of  dancing,  as  Grosse 
calls  it,  has  a  general  explanation  in  the  fact  that  rhythmic 
movement  is  instinctive.  Movement,  merely  as  move- 
ment, is  normally  pleasant,  and,  when  vigorous  rhythmic 
repetition  is  added,  the  instinctive  liking  for  the  perform- 
ance is  very  great.  The  absorption  of  the  performer  in 
rhythmic  activity  is  so  complete  that  at  times  a  dancer 


88  THE   DANCE 

will  keep  himself  going  to  the  point  of  utter  exhaus- 
tion, and  often  to  the  manifest  injury  of  the  organism. 
Rhythmic  movement  is  also  sufificiently  absorbing  to  act 
as  an  anesthetic  for  disagreeable  states  of  mind. 

The  Dance  in  Primitive  Culture.  Grosse/  who  class- 
ifies primitive  dances  as  gymnastic  and  mimetic,  gives  this 
description  of  the  Australian  corroborry  as  an  example 
of  gymnastic  dancing. 

"It  is  astonishing  how  accurately  the  time  is  kept;  the 
tunes  a^d  the  movements  are  all  in  unison.  The  dancers 
move  as  smoothly  as  the  best-trained  ballet  troupe.  They 
assume  all  possible  positions,  sometimes  springing  aside, 
sometimes  advancing,  sometimes  retiring  one  or  two 
steps;  they  stretch  and  bend  themselves,  swing  their  arms 
and  stamp  with  their  feet.  Nor  is  the  director  idle. 
While  he  is  beating  the  time  with  his  sticks,  he  continually 
executes  a  peculiar  nasal  song,  louder  or  more  softly  by 
turn,  as  he  makes  a  step  forward  or  backward.  He  does 
not  stand  in  the  same  place  for  an  instant;  now  he  turns 
toward  the  dancers,  now  toward  the  women  (they  accom- 
pany this  dance  with  their  music),  who  then  hft  up  their 
voices  with  all  their  might.  The  dancers  gradually 
become  more  excited;  the  time-sticks  are  struck  faster; 
motions  become  more  rapid  and  vigorous;  the  dancers 
shake  themselves,  spring  into  the  air  to  an  incredible 
height,  and  finally  utter  a  shrill  cry,  as  if  from  one  mouth. 
An  instant  later,  and  they  have  all  vanished  into  the 
bushes  as  suddenly  as  they  came  out  of  them."  This 
performance  is  repeated  several  times  with  slight  varia- 
tions, but  with  ever-increasing  excitement. 

'   "  The  Beginnings  of  Art,"  ch.  8. 


PRIMITIVE   DANCES  89 

The  mimetic  dances  of  primitive  peoples  show  a  great 
variety  of  forms.  The  men  of  hunting  tribes  imitate 
the  activities  of  the  hunt,  and  also  mimic  the  animals 
which  they  pursue;  thus  they  have  the  dances  of  the  emu, 
the  dingo,  the  frog,  the  kangaroo,  etc.  Other  types  of 
mimetic  dances  are  the  war-dances,  love-dances,  religious 
and  magic  rites,  which  often  represent  the  forces  of 
nature,  change  of  seasons,  etc.  In  some  tribes  the 
women  are  said  to  have  dances  which  imitate  their 
various  occupations, —  as  diving  for  shells,  digging  for 
roots,  nursing  children  and  quarreling  with  husbands. 
Among  Europeans  the  peasant  industries  are  often 
imitated   in  the  folk-dances. 

"  The  primitive  dance,"  says  Grosse,  "  is  the  most 
immediate,  most  perfect,  and  most  efficient  expression 
of  the  primitive  esthetic  feeling."  The  compulsion 
which  the  sight  and  sound  of  dancing  exercises  over  the 
primitive  spectator  is  fairly  hypnotic;  its  stimulative 
power  is  probably  greater  than  that  of  any  other  form 
of  art.  The  social  significance  of  the  dance  is  extremely 
important  to  the  tribe.  Primitive  peoples  usually  dance 
in  masses  rather  than  individually,  and  this  moving  to  a 
common  rhythm  and  performing  at  the  same  instant 
movements  which  are  precisely  alike  cannot  but  impress 
upon  the  participants  the  sense  of  the  community  of  the 
group.  Santayana  writes:  ^  "  To  tread  the  measures  of  a 
sacred  dance,  to  march  with  an  army,  to  bear  one's  share 
in  any  universal  act,  fills  the  heart  with  a  voluminous 
silent  emotion.  The  massive  suggestion,  the  pressure 
of  the  ambient  will,  is  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  present 

*  "  Reason  in  Art,"  ch.  3. 


90  THE   DANCE 

call  for  action.  Infinite  resources  and  definite  premoni- 
tions are  thus  stored  up  in  the  soul;  and  merely  to  have 
moved  solemnly  together  is  the  best  possible  preparation 
for  living  afterward,  even  if  apart,  in  the  consciousness 
of  a  general  monition  and  authority." 
J-  The  Greek  Dance.  Dancing  was  generally  held  in 
K^  high  esteem  by  ancient  peoples,  but  none  admired  it  more 
sincerely  or  practised  it  more  systematically  than  the 
Greeks.  They  represented  their  gods  and  goddesses  as 
dancers,  and  it  was  not  uncommon  for  the  Greeks  to 
see  their  most  distinguished  statesmen  and  philosophers 
join  the  public  solemn  dances.  Plato,  Sophocles  and 
Alcibiades  are  among  those  who  are  said  to  have  led 
the  chorus  of  dancers.  One  of  the  most  important  forms 
practised  by  the  Greeks  was  the  Pyrrhic  dance.  Parents 
were  obliged  by  the  state  to  exercise  their  children  in  this 
dance.  There  were  several  varieties  of  Pyrrhic  dance, 
but  all  were  military  in  character.  The  young  men,  fully 
armed  with  helmets,  shields  and  spears,  went  through 
the  evolutions  of  combat.  They  danced  sometimes 
singly,  sometimes  in  the  mass,  and  performed  an  exact 
imitation  of  all  the  movements  of  attack  and  defense. 
Other  pantomimic  dances  represented  scenes  from  the 
lives  of  gods  and  heroes  —  such  themes  as  the  judgment 
of  Paris,  the  marriage  of  Dionysus  and  Ariadne,  and  the 
adventures  of  Theseus  in  the  labyrinth.  There  were  also 
religious  and  funeral  dances. 

The  actual  attitudes  and  movements  of  the  Greek 
dancers,  the  details  of  their  practice,  have  been  studied 
out  from  the  figures  on  monuments  and  vases.  From 
these  sources  many  of  the  positions  can  be  known,  and 


GREEK   DANCING  9 1 

from  the  positions  certain  of  the  movements  themselves 
can  be  safely  inferred/  Certain  conventionalized  ges- 
tures, survivals  of  emotional  attitudes,  had  a  traditional 
place  in  their  ceremonies.  The  gesture  of  the  wor- 
shiper, for  instance,  consisted  of  raising  up  both  hands 
with  the  palms  spread  upward  as  in  Fig.  3,  and  was 
probably  a  survival  of  the  attitude  appropriate  to  the 
expectation  of  receiving  something  from   above. 

The  traditional  funeral  gesture  consisted  in  clutching 
the  head  with  a  downward  dragging  motion;  this  was 
the  conventionalized  survival  of  the  original  practice  at 
funerals  of  tearing  the  hair  or  scratching  the  face.  This 
attitude  is  shown  in  one  of  Sargent's  prophets  (Fig.  4). 


Fig.  3.  Fig.  4-  Fig.  5. 

It  appears  that  much  of  the  technique  of  the  Greek 
dance  coincides  pretty  closely  with  that  of  modern  danc- 
ing, but  that  there  are,  nevertheless,  some  marked  dif- 
ferences. Certain  positions  were  taken  by  the  Greek 
dancers  which  would  not  be  allowed  in  the  modern 
ballet;  for  example,  standing  with  feet  in  parallel  lines 

1  For  what  follows,  Emmanuel,  "La  Danse  Grecque,"  is  autlxirity. 


92  THE   DANCE 

as  in  Fig.  5,  or  permitting  the  arms  to  hang  straight  at  the 
sides,  or  to  be  bent  in  sharp  angles.  Again,  certain 
positions  were  employed  more  frequently  by  the  Greeks, 
such  as  strong  contorsions  of  the  body,  bending  it  far 
forward  and  then  far  backward,  —  a  movement  common 
in  the  bacchanal  dances.  Perhaps  the  most  important 
difference  is  the  much  wider  range  of  head  and  arm  move- 
ments employed  by  the  Greeks.  In  modern  dancing 
the  hand  is  treated  simply  as  a  part  of  the  arm,  that  is, 
it  merely  completes  its  lines  and  motions,  the  fingers 
remaining  almost  always  in  the  one  conventional  group- 
ing (Fig.  II,  p.  103).  With  the  Greeks,  on  the  contrary, 
the  hands  were  nearly  always  active  in  an  expressive 
manner.  This  difference  is  due  probably  to  the  fact  that 
the  Greeks  never  separated  the  dance  from  the  panto- 
mime, but  they  expressed  through  this  undifferentiated 
form  all  sorts  of  mimetic  motives.  With  the  Greeks,  there- 
fore, characterization  and  expression  would  occasionally 
take  precedence  over  pure  gracefulness;  whereas,  with  the 
moderns,  most  characterization  is  left  to  the  drama  and 
pantomime,  and  the  dance  is  reserved  more  exclusively  for 
expression  which  is  purely  graceful. 

Modern  Forms.  In  the  middle  ages  dancing  had 
fallen  into  disrepute;  certain  church  decrees  forbade 
it.  But  toward  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  the  art 
began  to  be  seriously  revived.  It  was  encouraged  in 
Italy  by  the  Medici  as  an  adjunct  to  the  splendor  of  their 
court,  and  through  Catharine  de  Medici  the  interest  in  it 
spread  to  France,  where  modern  dancing  has  received  its 
most  systematic  culture.  In  dancing,  as  in  all  arts, 
different  nations  borrow  from  one  another,  and  yet  each 


THE   PROCESSION  93 

nation  has  developed  forms  of  its  own,  which  are  felt  to  be 
characteristic  and  expressive  of  the  national  temperament. 
No  description  of  a  dance  can  give  a  really  adequate  idea, 
but  we  shall  name  some  of  the  better-known  forms,  and 
try  to  make  some  estimate  as  to  their  esthetic  quality. 
The  March  or  Procession.  The  simplest  form  of 
rhythmic  movement  which  may  be  technically  classed  as 
a  dance  is  the  alternate  tread  of  the  march.  The  walking 
step  is  sometimes  used  as  a  preliminary  to  a  more  intricate 
step  or  as  an  alternate  in  complex  dances,  but  in  the 
present  connection  it  is  the  characteristic  step  of  a  per- 
formance complete  in  itself.  The  marching  or  processional 
step  has  a  strong,  simple  rhythm.  The  chief  esthetic 
effect  of  the  march  is  the  impression  which  it  makes  of 
mass,  dignity  and  simplicity.  Formal  marching  usually 
means  the  movement  of  a  large  body  of  persons,  and  the 
orderly  progression  of  such  a  group  requires  simple, 
accurately  timed  motion.  The  erect  carriage  which  this 
movement  permits  also  adds  to  the  impression  of  dignity. 
The  experience  of  one  taking  part  in  the  action  includes, 
as  has  been  said,  a  sense  of  solidarity  with  the  group.  It 
enhances  the  feeling  of  subordination  to  the  whole  to 
feel  that  one  must  conform  step  by  step  to  the  common 
rhythm;  but  at  the  same  time  it  enhances  the  sense  of 
power  to  feel  that  the  whole  column  is  swaying  with  one- 
self. For  the  spectator  the  esthetic  effect  depends  upon 
visual  elements.  To  produce  a  good  appearance  regard 
must  be  paid  to  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  line.  The 
pageant  of  a  moving  column  must  present  some  important 
feature  at  the  beginning  as  a  challenge  to  attention,  and 
then  it  should  later  work  up  to  some  kind  of  climax  at  the 


94  THE   DANCE 

end  of  the  line.  In  military  marches  a  certain  emphasis 
is  given  to  the  front  by  the  presence  of  musicians,  and 
to  the  middle  and  end  of  the  line  by  the  presence  of 
cavalry  or  artillery  or,  in  ancient  times,  by  the  trophies 
of  war.  Processions  have  been  important  social  func- 
tions both  in  ancient  and  modern  times.  Berenson 
writes: '  "  Processions  and  pageants  by  land  and  sea  .  .  . 
formed  no  less  a  part  of  the  functions  of  the  Venetian 
State  than  the  High  Mass  in  the  Catholic  Church." 
Such  ceremony  has  been  the  theme  of  both  sculptor  and 
painter:  famous  examples  are  the  procession  on  the 
frieze  of  the  Parthenon,  and  Mantegna's  painting  of  the 
"Triumph  of  Julius  Caesar." 

Church  Ritual.  In  Christian  churches  of  the  middle 
ages,  as  in  the  sacred  rites  of  the  ancient  pagan  religions, 
dancing  was  an  authorized  practice.  This  is  remarkable 
in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  church  took  pains  to  suppress 
secular  dancing;  but  Vuillier  says:^  "It  is  in  Catholic 
Spain  that  religious  dances  have  most  notably  persisted. 
In  the  time  of  St.  Thomas  of  Villanueva  ...  it  was 
customary  to  dance  before  the  Sacred  Elements  in  the 
churches  of  Seville,  Toledo,  Jeres  and  Valencia."  This 
custom  is  still  kept  up  in  the  cathedral  of  Seville,  and 
the  dance,  performed  by  choir-boys,  is  said  to  be  of  an 
elaborate  and  spirited  character.  There  are  parts  of 
the  service  in  many  Christian  churches  of  the  present 
day  which  are  properly  classified  as  dancing  in  the  broad 
sense  of  the  term.  In  the  Greek,  the  Roman  and  the 
Anglican  rituals  there  are,  in  addition  to  the  procession, 

*  "  Venetian  Painters  of  the  Renaissance." 
^  "  History  of  Dancing." 


RELIGIOUS    RITUAL  95 

certain  regulated  steps  and  postures  performed  by  the 
priest  and  his  assistants  before  the  aUar.  They  con- 
tribute greatly  to  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  the  service. 
Thus,  in  churches  which  revive  the  ancient  Anglican 
forms,  the  priest  at  the  censing  of  the  altar  stands  first 
before  the  middle  of  the  altar  with  an  assisting  minister 
at  each  side.  The  three  all  kneel  and  rise,  the  priest 
swings  the  censer  three  times  before  the  altar  cross;  all 
three  then  kneel  again,  and,  rising,  pass  slowly  in  unison 
three  or  four  steps  to  the  right.  The  steps  are  supposed 
to  correspond  to  the  rhythm  of  the  swinging  censer,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  altar  the  censer  is  swung  in  prescribed 
lines.  This  performance  is  repeated  in  censing  the  left 
side  of  the  altar,  and  the  three  persons  finally  return  to 
the  middle.  This  certainly  constitutes  a  rhythmical  and 
symmetrical  series  of  movements  which  may  with  pro- 
priety be  called  a  sacred  dance. 

The  postures  prescribed  for  religious  exercises  are 
expressive  of  the  emotional  states  of  reverence,  submis- 
sion and  supplication:  the  commonest  ones  arc  kneeling, 
bowing,  genuflexion  and,  in  the  Greek  church,  prostra- 
tion. These  are  excellent  examples  of  the  convention- 
alized expression  of  emotion  —  in  this  case  the  emotions  of 
fear  and  worship.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  that  the  bov»' 
in  the  church  service  is  the  same  mark  by  which  we  show 
recognition  and  respect  to  our  friends;  and  further,  that 
the  genuflexion  appears  in  secular  dancing  and  in  social 
ceremony  as  the  curtsy  or  "reverence,"  and  is  expressive, 
as  the  name  implies,  of  courtesy  and  reverence.  The 
purpose  of  these  prescribed  religious  usages  is  set  forth 
in  an  old  text  which  shows  an  esthetic  appreciation  of 


96  THE   DANCE 

form:^  "The  changing  that  is  in  God's  service  from 
one  thing  to  another  is  ordained  to  let  it  drive  away 
your  dullness,  that  ye  should  not  wax  tedious  or  weary, 
but  gladly  and  joyfully,  not  in  vain  joy,  but  in  joy  of 
spiritual  devotion,  continue  in  God's  service.  Therefore 
sometime  ye  sing,  sometime  ye  read,  sometime  ye  hear; 
now  one  alone,  now  twain,  now  all.  Sometime  ye  sit, 
sometime  ye  stand,  sometime  ye  bow,  sometime  ye  kneel. 
And  all  to  the  praising  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ;  and  so 
to  exercise  the  body  to  the  quickening  of  the  soul,  that 
such  bodily  observances  should  not  be  found  without 
cause  of  spiritual  understanding."  We  shall  find,  indeed, 
that  the  spiritual  understanding  in  esthetics  is  always 
more  or  less  a  matter  of  bodily  observances. 
j'y  The  Pavan,  the  Gavotte  and  the  Minuet.  One  of  the 
\^y^  most  important  of  the  old  court  dances  of  the  sixteenth 
r  century,  and  one  popular  throughout  cultivated  Europe, 

was  the  pavan.  Like  most  of  the  dances  of  the  noble 
classes,  it  was  decorous  and  grave  as  compared  with  the 
dances  of  the  people.  Some  of  these  ceremonial  dances 
were  so  earnest  in  character  that  they  were  danced  to 
hymns  and  psalm-tunes.  It  is  said  that  at  the  French 
court  the  favorite  dance  of  Charles  IX  was  accompanied 
by  a  melody  to  the  psalm,  "Many  a  time  have  they 
afflicted  me  from  my  youth."  The  pavan  was  danced  in 
couples  by  a  large  company  of  persons.  The  steps 
were  simple,  and  it  was  for  the  most  part  a  promenade 
with  figures  not  unlike  the  modern  quadrille.  The 
gavotte  was  another  dance  of  the  same  period  and  a 
little  later.     It,  too,  was  a  dance  of  the  courts,  but  not 

1  "  Myroure  of  Oure  Ladye." 


COURT   DANCES  97 

quite  so  solemn  as  the  pavan;  for,  alternating  with  the 
slow  movements,  there  were  quicker  ones,  with  little 
mincing  steps.  It  was  danced  to  the  tune  of  "  Amaryllis, " 
which  gives  some  clue  to  its  movement.  Most  important 
of  all  the  courtly  dances  was  the  minuet.  It  was  devel- 
oped by  the  French,  and  it  remained  for  a  hundred  years 
the  favorite  dance  of  cultivated  people.  It  was  called  the 
queen  of  all  dances,  and  praised  as  the  epitome  of  all 
grace.  A  person  learning  the  minuet  had,  in  those  days, 
to  practise  for  three  months  before  attempting  an  appear- 
ance; which  means  that  there  must  have  been  numerous 
rules  about  one's  carriage  and  motions,  many  airs  and 
graces,  which  arc  no  longer  known  or  practised.  The 
steps  were  small  {minutus,  hence  the  name),  elegant 
and  expert.  Although  each  of  these  three  dances  has 
its  own  characteristic  step,  there  is  a  certain  community 
of  spirit  in  them  all.  All  have  relatively  slow,  decorous 
movements  and  exhibit  the  grace  which  comes  of  perfect 
control.  In  each  the  different  movements  are  finished 
by  low  curtsies  or  profound  bows,  and  in  each  there  is 
the  like  graceful  use  of  the  arms,  the  arms  being  lifted 
in  a  curve  to  the  height  of  the  shoulder  whenever  the 
lady  and  her  partner  join  hands.  There  is  throughout 
a  beautiful  and  graceful  formality.  The  minuet  is  a  more 
highly  developed  dance  than  the  others,  and  it  should  be 
remarked,  in  view  of  what  was  said  about  three-part 
rhythms,  that  whereas  the  pavan  and  gavotte  are  danced 
to  two-part  time,  the  minuet  goes  to  three-part  measure, 
which  we  saw  was  the  more  perfectly  balanced  rhythm. 
Spanish  Dancing.  The  dances  of  Spain  have  been 
famous  for  their  beautv  since  the  time  of  the   Roman 


98 


THE   DANCE 


empire.  It  is  said  that  the  women  dancers  of  Cadiz  were 
the  chief  glory  of  many  a  Roman  feast.  The  Spanish 
people  have  a  love  for  dancing  which  is  comparable 
with  the  love  of  the  Italians  for  painting  or  the  Germans 
for  music.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  fire  and  a  great  deal 
of  contrast  in  their  dances,  long,  sinuous  movements 
alternating  with  rapid  fiery  ones,  graceful  swaying  with 
quick  whirling,  pretty  demure  little  steps  with  great 
sweeping  ones.  The  postures  show  sometimes  a  splendid 
haughtiness,  and  sometimes  a  no  less  splendid  abandon, 
the  audacity  and  subtlety  of  the  movements  and  postures 
making  an  artistic  performance  of  the  very  first  rank. 
A  common  and  characteristic  movement  in  Spanish 
dances  is  the  step  known  as  the  "pas  de  basque."  The 
first  step  (Fig,  6)  is  a  wide,  circling  one  to  the  right  side, 

the  arms  being  carried  over  to 
the  same  side,  but  a  proper 
balance  being  kept  by  the 
body,  which  turns  in  a  half- 
crouching  attitude  toward  the 
left.  This  position  is  held 
until  the  left  foot  has  been 
brought  in  front  of  the  other 
(second  step)  and  the  weight 
shifted  back  to  the  right 
foot  (third  step).  The  left 
foot  is  then  swung  out  to  the 
left,  the  arms  being  carried  in  the  same  direction,  but 
the  body  now  crouching  to  the  right,  and  so  on.  This 
step  is  executed  to  three-part  measure,  but  when  it  is 
repeated  to  right  and  left  in  this  way  it  gives  a  striking 


Fig.  6. 


SPANISH   AND    OTHER    DANCING  99 

compound  rhythm  in  which  the  three-part  group  is 
fundamental,  but  each  three  is  a  unit  in  a  strong  two-part 
group.  Another  graceful  step  common  in  Spanish  dances 
is  the  "rond  de  jambe"  or  floating  circle.  In  this, 
the  knee  is  raised  about  waist-high  and  held  as  a  pivot, 
while  the  lower  part  of  the  leg  makes  a  circle  in  the  air. 
Again,  in  Spanish  dancing  there  is  more  movement  of 
the  body  than  in  most  western  dancing,  a  great  deal 
of  hip-motion,  and  this  oriental  element  is  probably  due 
to  Moorish  influence  in  Spain. 

Other  National  Dancing.  The  Italian  tarantella  is 
famous  for  its  beautiful  attitudes  and  wild  grace,  though 
it  wants  something  of  the  dramatic  fire  and  the  finish  of 
the  Spanish  dances.  In  oriental  dances  the  interest  lies 
not  so  much  in  the  steps,  which  are  often  insignificant, 
as  in  other  movements — graceful  lifting  and  swaying  of 
the  arms,  and  all  sorts  of  bending  and  undulating  of  the 
trunk.  Very  different  from  the  oriental  and  southern 
dances  are  the  Irish  jig,  the  English  hornpipe,  the 
Highland  fling,  and  the  dances  of  northern  Europe 
generally.  Their  character  depends  upon  lively  steps 
rather  than  graceful,  curving  attitudes  and  elaborate 
arm-movements.  They  are  more  jaunty  than  amorous, 
which  is  quite  the  reverse  of  the  oriental.  The  dancer 
who  executes  rapid  and  expert  steps,  but  all  the  while 
holds  his  body  and  arms  rigid,  is  certainly  in  a  different 
emotional  condition  from  one  who  is  active  all  over.  It 
would  seem  that  the  northern  dancer  is  disposed  to  control 
his  dance  rather  than  to  be  controlled  by  it.  Among 
German  folk-dances  was  one  in  which  the  episodes  of 
courtship   were   acted   out,   the   final   movement   of  the 


lOO  THE   DANCE 

dance  being  a  rapid  whirling  motion  in  which  the  youth 
swings  his  maiden  about.  This  was  the  original  of  our 
modern  social  waltz. 

"  Program  "  Dancing.  On  the  analogy  of  "program" 
music  we  may  coin  the  term  program  dancing  to  designate 
a  certain  type  of  dance  which  has  recently  become  popular. 
This  kind  of  dance  is  the  attempt  to  express  by  rhythmic 
movement  all  the  shades  of  meaning  which  are  present 
in  some  given  piece  of  music.  The  dancer  executes  a 
series  of  movements  and  postureswhich  reflect  the  changes 
of  pitch,  intensity,  phrasing,  etc.,  of  the  music.  Flournoy 
writes  of  the  case  of  the  famous  Madeleine,  who  danced 
when  under  hypnotic  influence.  When  a  piece  of  music 
was  played,  or  a  poetic  recitation  given^  she  would  inter- 
pret by  an  infinite  variety  of  attitudes,  gestures  and  steps 
the  modulations  in  the  auditory  series.  Thus,  high  tones 
provoked  in  her  an  expression  of  pleasure,  low  tones  of 
sadness.  If  one  played  ascending  octaves  she  would 
raise  her  arms  and  lift  herself  up  to  her  full  height;  if 
one  played  descending  octaves  she  would  sink  down  and 
crouch  or  grovel  on  the  floor.  Such  a  performance  is, 
in  a  sense,  an  imitative  dance,  but  an  imitation  twice 
removed  from  the  original  situation,  since  the  dance  itself 
is  a  work  of  art,  and  what  it  derives  its  stimulus  from  is 
the  work  of  art  of  the  musician.  When  such  artists  as 
Isidora  Duncan  and  Maude  Allen  dance  to  a  Mendelssohn 
Spring  Song  or  a  Chopin  Funeral  March,  we  may  feel 
that  they  are  giving  something  just  as  beautiful  as  the 
music,  and  something  congruous  with  the  sentiment  of 
the  music,  but  it  is  something,  nevertheless,  which  is 
essentially  and  forever  different  from  the  music.     It    is 


PRINCIPLES    OF   POSTURE   AND    MOVEMENT      lOI 

possible  and  proper,  of  course,  to  get  suggestions  from 
music,  but  the  real  germ  of  an  artistic  dance  will  be, 
not  a  musical  motive,  but  a  dance  motive.  Some  grace- 
ful step  or  characteristic  gesture,  rather  than  any  com- 
bination of  sounds,  must  be  the  central  idea  of  real 
dancing. 

Principles  of  Posture  and  Movement.  All  steps  in 
modern  dancing  should  start  from  some  one  of  the  five 
principal  positions.  Ballet  dancers  are  required  to 
maintain  these  positions  rigorously,  with  toes  turned  out 
as  in  Fig.  7. 


II 


III 


In  some  national  dances  other  positions  than  these 
five  are  used,  e.g.,  toes  are  sometimes  turned  in,  but 
these  cases  are  exceptions.  The  chief  positions  of  the 
trunk  and  head  are  also  each  five  in  number.  Body 
or  head  may  be  held  erect,  or  bent  to  one  side,  or  bent 
forward  or  backward,  or  rotated  to  the  side.  The 
positions  of  the  arms  are  almost  unlimited  in  number. 
The  graceful  use  of  the  arms  is  the  most  difficult  part 
of  dancing,  and  it  is  just  in  this  that  the  skill  of  the  dancer 
is  best  revealed. 

One  of  the  most  inflexible  rules  of  grace   is  that   the 
toe  shall  always  point  down  as  the  foot  is  lifted  from  the 


I02  THE   DANCE 

ground.  This  will  make  a  long,  continuous  line  with  the 
leg,  as  in  Fig.  8,  rather  than  an  awkward  broken  one,  as 
in  Fig.  9. 

The  principle  of  opposition  or  balance  is  an  extremely 
important  one  for  the  dancer.  The  body  must  not  only 
actually  be  well  balanced,  but  it  must  be  managed  so  as 


Fig.  8.  Fig.  9. 

to  appear  so  to  the  spectator.  Balance  is  maintained 
by  the  opposition  of  different  parts  of  the  body.  If  the 
trunk  is  bent  to  the  right,  an  arm  or  a  leg  must  be  stretched 
out  to  the  left;  or,  if  the  trunk  is  bent  forward,  the  head 
will  be  thrown  back.  In  marching,  the  arms  and  legs 
naturally  swing  in  opposition,  the  right  arm  going  forward 
wnth  the  left  leg,  the  left  arm  with  the  right  leg.  Many 
balancing  movements  are  made  instinctively,  but  in  order 
to  produce  an  artistic  effect  and  to  constitute  a  distinguished 
carriage  they  must  be  consciously  accepted  and  refined 
upon  by  the  dancer.  The  posture  of  the  flying  Mercury 
is  a  good  example  of  balance,  and  so,  too,  is  the  position 
of  Fig.  10.  Here  the  right  arm  and  left  leg  are  back;  the 
left  arm  and  right  leg  forward;  the  body  bent  slightly 
backward  and  the  head  forward. 


PRINCIPLES    OF   MOVEMENT 


103 


Fig.  10. 


Movements  should  always  seem  to  be  initiated  from 
the    trunk    and    to    flow    outward    to    the    extremities. 
When  the  arm  is  moved  the  motion  must  appear  to  start 
from  the  shoulder  or  upper  arm, 
then  to  follow  on  in  the  elbow  and 
lower  arm,  and  finally  to  trail  into 
the    wrist    and    hand.     When   one 
waves  a  pennant  the  small  tip  fol- 
lows the  undulations  of  the  larger 
and  fixed  part,  and  the  hand  should 
appear    to    obey    the    same    law. 
Fig.  II  shows  the  correct  position 
of    the    hand    as   the    arm    moves 

in  an  upward  line.  The  body  should  appear  to  carry 
the  head  with  it,  so  that  in  the  performance  of  a  bow  or 
curtsy,  for  instance,  the  motion  of 
the  head  will  seem  to  follow  and 
complete  the  movement  of  the 
trunk.  If  movements  seem  to 
begin  with  the  hands  or  feet  or 
head,  the  trunk  will  look  as  if 
it  were  being  pulled  along  or  run 
away  with.  The  body  will  not 
look  poised  unless  its  movements  center  about  the 
trunk. 

Other  rules  of  movement  prescribe  that  all  parts  of 
the  body  shall  be  kept  as  flexible  as  may  be;  or,  rather, 
as  responsive  as  possible  to  the  slightest  impulse  to  move- 
ment. Movements  should  usually  be  made  in  curves. 
In  changing  from  one  position  to  another  the  arms  and 
legs  should  not  be  kept  extended,  but  should  be  drawn  in 


Fig.  II. 


I04  THE   DANCE 

toward  the  body  and  then  extended  into  the  new  position. 
In  this  way  there  is  a  constant  reference  to  the  center 
of  balance.  The  arms  should  never  hang  straight  down 
at  the  sides,  but  when  they  are  at  rest  should  hang  in  a 
slight  outward  curve. 

These  rules  areapart  of  thcformal  techniqueof  dancing. 
They  indicate  some  of  the  conditions  to  which  artistic 
imagination  is  limited  when  it  works  with  the  moving 
human  form  as  its  medium. 

Reading  References 

CzERWiNSKi:  "Geschichte  d.  Tanzkunst." 

Vuillier:  "History  of  Dancing." 

Grove:  "Dancing." 

Emamnuel:  "La  Danse'Grecque." 

Giraudet:  "Traite  de  la  Danse." 

Grosse:  "The  Beginnings  of  Art."     Chap.  viii. 

Scott:  "Dancing." 


CHAPTER   Vn 

MUSIC 

Primitive  Music.  The  two  sources  of  musical  effect 
are  rhythm,  which  unites  music  with  other  arts,  and  tone 
relationship,  which  separates  it  from  others.  In  primi- 
tive music,  we  are  told  by  those  who  study  savage  customs, 
the  rhythmic  element  is  far  more  important  than  the  tone 
sensations.  The  practice  of  keeping  time  for  dancers  by 
shouting  and  beating  drums  is  the  original  of  music. 
"Dance,  poetry  and  music",  says  Grossc,'  "...  form  a 
natural  unity,  which  can  only  artificially  be  separated." 
Time  and  rhythm  are  managed  by  savage  performers, 
it  is  said,  with  truly  wonderful  precision.  In  pitch  rela- 
tionships, however,  they  seem  to  be  less  precise.  It  is 
this  latter  fact,  probably,  which  has  led  to  the  belief  that 
primitive  folk  employ  intervals  which  are  foreign  to  our 
scale  and  cannot  be  represented  by  our  notation.  Fill- 
more, who  made  a  study  of  many  of  the  American 
Indian  songs,  thinks  this  is  a  mistake.  He  says:^  "Not 
one  has  an  interval  different  from  those  we  employ."  He 
says  that  the  Indians  often  sing  these  intervals  a  little 
off  key,  just  as  civilized  persons  may,  but  when  they  hear 
the  correct  and  the  incorrect  intonations  reproduced 
they  choose  the  correct  ones,  insisting  that  that  was  what 
they  meant   to   sing.     Primitive    songs   are   simple   and 

•  Op.  cit. 
"  Harmonic  Structure  of  Indian  Music."     Am.  Anthro.,  vol.  i. 
105 


I06  MUSIC 

monotonous,  sometimes  having  as  component  tones  only 
a  key-note  with  its  third  and  fifth.  The  principle  of 
tonality  is  commonly  observed.  Wallaschek  maintains 
that  savages  have  also  a  perception  of  harmonic  relations. 
He  says:*  "The  Bechuana  also  sing  in  harmony.  The 
melody  of  their  songs  is  simple  enough,  consisting  chiefly 
of  descending  and  ascending  thirds,  while  the  singers  have 
sufficient  appreciation  of  harmony  to  sing  in  tvs'o  parts." 
It  is  safe  to  assume  that  the  musical  perception  and  practice 
of  civilized  peoples  are  but  the  elaboration  and  refinement 
of  the  perceptions  and  practices  of  primitive  peoples,  or, 
as  Meyer  says,^  "that  the  fundamental  psychological 
laws  of  music  are  the  same  all  over  the  world." 

Physical  Basis  of  Tone  Differences.  The  physical 
basis  of  sound  is  the  vibration  of  some  body,  such  as  a 
taut  string,  a  column  of  air,  a  piece  of  metal,  wood  or 
glass.  These  vibrations  are  communicated  to  the  air, 
and  the  air  waves  in  turn  set  up  motion  in  the  mech- 
anism of  the  ear.  When  the  air  waves  are  irregular  or 
aperiodic  in  their  vibration  the  sound  we  hear  is  called  a 
noise;  but  when  the  air  waves  are  periodic  the  sound  is 
called  a  tone.  It  takes  at  least  two  vibrations  to  give  us 
the  impression  of  tone;  hence  a  sound  only  one  vibration 
long  is  also  a  noise.  Noises  are  commonly  more  com- 
plex than  tones,  being,  indeed,  combinations  of  tones 
whose  vibrations  interfere  with  one  another.  Noise  and 
tone  do  not  strictly  exclude  each  other;  there  is  often 
regularity  enough  in  a  noise  to  give  it  definite  pitch,  and 
there  are  often    perceptible   elements   of  noise  in  agree- 

'  "Primitive  Music." 

'  "The  Psycliology  of  Music."     Am.  Jour.,  vol.  xiv. 


PHYSICAL   BASIS    OF   TOx\E  lO/ 

able  tone  combinations.  The  recognized  medium  of 
musical  expression  is  tone. 

Every  tone  has,  besides  its  duration,  three  attributes  — 
intensity,  pitch  and  quality.  The  intensity  of  a  tone 
depends  upon  the  amplitude  of  the  air  wa\-cs  which  strike 
the  ear.  We  can  easily  see  the  greater  amplitude  of  a 
vibrating  string  when  it  is  plucked  more  forcibly  than 
usual.  The  pitch  of  a  tone  depends  upon  the  number 
of  air  vibrations  per  second  which  reach  the  ear;  the 
greater  the  number,  the  higher  the  tone.  The  limits  of 
hearing,  that  is,  the  lowest  and  the  highest  tones  which  the 
human  ear  can  well  detect,  arc  about  i6  and  50,000  vibra- 
tions respectively.  Most  of  our  musical  experiences  fall 
considerably  within  these  limits,  ranging  between  about 
64  and  5,000  vibrations.  The  human  ear  is  able  to  dis- 
criminate much  finer  differences  of  tone  than  those  in 
practical  use  in  any  musical  scale.  A  difference  of  one- 
fourth  of  a  vibration  can  easily  be  told  under  favorable 
circumstances;  whereas,  in  our  scale,  the  smallest  inter- 
vals differ  (in  the  octave  of  middle  C,  256  vibrations) 
by  fifteen  to  thirty  vibrations,  approximately. 

The  quality,  timbre,  or,  better,  the  clang-tint  of  a  tone 
is  that  property  which  distinguishes  tones  of  the  same 
pitch  and  intensity  from  one  another.  The  peculiarity 
which  allows  us  to  speak  of  organ-tone,  piano-tone, 
cornet-tone  etc.,  is  the  characteristic  element  of  clang- 
tint.  Clang-tint  depends  upon  the  presence  of  overtones 
which  accompany  a  fundamental  tone.  In  terms  of 
vibrations  this  means  that  there  is  a  difference  in  the 
complexity  of  the  air  waves  whicli  strike  the  ear.  A 
sonorous   body  —  a  string,  for  example  —  vibrates  as  a 


I08  MUSIC 

whole,  and  at  the  same  time  in  segments.  The  slowest 
vibration-rate — that  of  the  string  as  a  whole — gives  the 
fundamental;  and  the  rates  of  the  segments  determine 
the  higher  partials.  A  rich  tone  is  really  a  harmony 
of  several  tones,  and  the  fundamental  with  its  overtones 
is  called  "  the  harmonic  chord  of  nature."  The  partials 
are  represented  in  the  accompanying  scale.     No.  i  is  the 

bl  -■  --  - 


=9^ 


fundamental  or  first  partial.  An  octave  above  is  No.  2, 
the  second  partial  (or  first  overtone).  An  octave  and  a 
fifth  above  is  No.  3,  the  third,  partial  etc.  Most  musical 
instruments  emphasize  only  the  first  few  partials,  but 
different  instruments,  by  bringing  out  different  partials, 
get  in  this  way  their  characteristic  color  or  clang-tint. 
Violins  resound  strongly  with  the  consonant  overtones 
and  have  a  brilliant  and  also  a  mellow  quality.  Some 
trumpets  ring  with  tht  higher  overtones  and  are  brilliant 
in  character  but  somewhat  harsh,  since  the  high  over- 
tones are  dissonant.  Tuning-forks  give  nearly  pure 
tones,  and  their  freedom  from  partials  makes  their  effect 
soft  but  dull.  A  rich  tone  gives  the  illusion  of  being 
slightly  higher  in  pitch  than  a  pure  one.  The  reason 
probably  is  this:  that  all  the  higher  partials  sounding 
in  company  with  the  fundamental  tend  to  make  the  whole 
impression  seem  higher  in  pitch  than  it  would  if  the 
fundamental  were  sounding  alone. 

'  The  seventh  partial  is  slightly  flatter  than  this  note  in  our  scale. 


CONSONANCE    AND    DISSONANCE  IO9 

The  beauty  of  individual  tones  may  be  said  to  depend 
upon  their  relative  freedom  from  the  element  of  noise, 
upon  their  richness  in  the  more  harmonious  overtones, 
and  upon  their  intensive  shading,  a  perfect  tone  being 
usually  played  or  sung  a  little  fuller  in  the  middle  than 
it  is  at  the  beginning  and  end. 

Consonance  and  Dissonance.  If  we  had  an  instru- 
ment which  would  sound  in  succession  every  perceptible 
degree  of  pitch  from  lowest  to  highest,  we  should  notice 
at  fixed  intervals  a  peculiar  similarity  between  different 
points  on  this  extended  scale;  the  pitch  character,  al- 
though constantly  getting  higher,  would  seem  in  a  sense 
to  repeat  itself  at  regular  intervals.  These  intervals 
are  what  we  call  octaves.  When  the  vibration-rate  of  one 
tone  is  twice  that  of  another  the  tones  are  felt  to  have  a 
resemblance  or  to  blend  in  a  unique  way.  This  blending 
smoothly  is  the  fact  of  consonance.  Helmholtz  has 
ascribed  consonance  and  dissonance  to  the  absence  or 
presence,  respectively,  of  beats.  Certainly  it  is  true  that 
when  beats  are  present  in  a  striking  degree  the  effect  is 
rough  and  harsh,  but  since  beats  may  be  present  when 
there  is  an  impression  of  consonance  and  absent  when 
there  is  an  impression  of  dissonance,  they  cannot  be 
assumed  as  the  sole  cause  of  the  feeling  of  dissonance. 
Stumpf  has  proposed  as  the  psychological  criterion  of 
consonance  the  feeling  of  blending  or  fusion  between 
tones.  Persons  with  musical  ear  agree  that  the  greatest 
identity,  or  closest  degree  of  fusion,  exists  between  a  tone 
and  its  octave,  next  in  identity  being  the  fifth  and  the 
fourth.  Stumpf,  working  on  unmusical  subjects,  found 
an  interesting  confirmation  of  these  judgments.     Persons 


no  MUSIC 

who  are  unmusical  often  find  great  difficulty  in  discrimi- 
nating the  tones  in  the  scale.  To  tell  a  tone  from  its 
octave  is  hardest,  to  tell  it  from  its  fifth  is  next  hardest,  and 
so  on.  This  difficulty  in  discrimination  may  be  taken  as 
a  measure  of  consonance  between  the  intervals.  With 
unmusical  persons,  then,  this  feeling  of  unity  amounts  to 
an  actual  inability  to  discriminate,  while  with  musical 
persons  the  feeling  of  unity  is  also  strong,  though  they  can 
clearly  discriminate  the  tones.  Just  why  certain  combi- 
nations give  the  experience  of  unity  and  others  do  not  has 
never  been  explained  in  a  wholly  satisfactory  way. 

The  following  list  gives,  in  order  of  smoothness,  the 
consonant  intervals  and  the  ratios  of  their  vibration-rates; 

1.  Octave 1:2  5.  Major  third 4:5 

2.  Fifth 2:3  6.  Minor  third 5:6 

3.  Fourth 3:4  7-  Minor  sixth 5:8 

4.  Major  sixth 3:5 

The  octave,  fifth  and  fourth  are  known  as  the  perfect 
consonances,  the  others  in  the  list  as  imperfect  conso- 
nances, and  all  other  musical  intervals  as  dissonances.  (It 
is  understood,  of  course,  that  intervals  of  an  octave  and 
a  fifth,  an  octave  and  a  third,  etc.,  are  regarded  in  this 
connection  as  equivalent  to  a  fifth,  a  third,  etc.) 

The  most  important  three-toned  consonances  are  the 
chords  of  the  major  and  minor  triads.  In  these  three 
positions  of  the  major  triad  it  will  be  noticed  that  all  the 

Major  Minor 


CONSONANCE   AND    DISSONANCE  I  I  I 

intervals  are  consonances.  In  a  the  intervals  repre- 
sented arc  a  fourth  between  C  and  G,  a  minor  third 
between  G  and  E,  and  a  minor  sixth  between  C  and  E. 
In  b  the  intervals  are  a  fourth,  a  major  third,  and  a 
major  sixth;  and  in  c  there  are  a  fifth,  a  major  third 
and  a  minor  third.  In  the  three  positions  of  the  related 
minor  triad,  a'  contains  a  fourth,  a  major  sixth  and  a 
major  third;  b'  contains  a  fourth,  a  minor  sixth  and  a 
minor  third,  and  c'  contains  a  fifth,  a  major  third  and 
a  minor  third.  These  triads  contain  only  consonant 
intervals,  but  we  cannot  tell  the  degree  of  consonance  in 
the  triad  without  knowing  the  position  of  the  compo- 
nent intervals.  Position  c'  of  the  minor  triad  contains 
exactly  the  same  intervals  as  position  c  of  the  major, 
but  it  is  a  less  consonant  chord  than  the  major. 

The  esthetic  value  of  consonance  and  dissonance  is  a 
matter  on  which  opinion  seems  to  have  changed  within 
historic  times.  To  the  Greeks  the  octave,  or  most  perfect 
consonance,  appears  to  have  been  the  most  agreeable. 
Their  two-part  singing  consisted  in  two  voices  an  octave 
apart  singing  the  same  thing.  The  medieval  musicians 
also  doubled  their  melodies,  but  at  the  interval  of  the 
fifth  or  of  the  fourth.  The  third  was  sometimes  allowed 
in  their  music,  but  it  was  considered  to  be  a  discord.  It 
is  quite  true  that  for  modern  taste  consonance  is,  on  the 
whole,  very  pleasant  and  dissonance  more  or  less  unpleas- 
ant, but  it  would  be  a  serious  mistake  to  conclude  that 
intervals  are  pleasing  in  proportion  as  they  approach 
perfect  consonance.  The  fact  seems  to  be  that  the 
major  third,  though  inferior  in  consonance  to  the  octave, 
fifth,  fourth  and  major  sixth,  is  to  modern  ears  the  most 


112  MUSIC 

satisfactory  interval.  (Meyer  says  a  very  slightly  aug- 
mented major  third.)  It  has  been  suggested  that  the 
major  third  offers  the  best  balance  between  the  factor 
of  unity  and  that  of  variety. 

There  is  a  great  deal  of  difference  in  the  esthetic 
value  of  different  dissonances.  To  strike  all  the  tones 
of  the  scale  at  once  makes  a  bad  discord,  but  to  strike 
the  chord  of  the  dominant  seventh  makes  a  dissonance 
of  a  highly  agreeable  and  significant  nature.  It  is  true, 
hov^ever,  that  we  do  not  wish  to  dwell  very  long  on  the 
chord,  and  this  fact  is  a  clue  to  the  fundamental  esthetic 
distinction  between  consonance  and  dissonance.  Conso- 
nance is  final  or  static  in  character,  and  dissonance  is  tran- 
sitional or  dynamic.  The  one  is  stable  and  conclusive,  and 
hearing  it  we  arc  content  to  expect  nothing  more;  the  other 
is  unstable  and  urgently  suggests  moving  on  to  something 
else.  It  is  not  merely  anything  else  which  the  dissonance 
seems  to  urge,  but  it  is  some  related  concord  which  will 
complete  its  meaning.  The  dissonant  and  consonant 
moments  of  music  might  be  compared  to  the  "transitive" 
and  "substantive"  aspects  of  the  thought  process  itself. 
Each  is  essential  to  musical  harmony  of  any  complexity. 

Musical  Scales.  The  scale  is  the  standard  compass  of 
tones  with  which  the  musician  works.  Why  is  it  that  out 
of  all  the  possible  tones  there  are  he  should  fix  upon  a 
certain  set  of  intervals  and  limit  his  composition  by 
those?  We  can  readily  understand  that  for  harmonic 
purposes  the  consonant  intervals  would  be  desired,  but  we 
may  ask  what  consideration  has  led  to  the  filling  up  of  the 
diatonic  scale  with  intervals  of  the  second  and  the  semi- 
tone.    The  semitone,  which  is  neither  the  smallest  inter- 


THE   SCALE  II3 

val  that  the  ear  can  hear,  nor  even  that  the  voice  can  sing, 
is  by  no  means  the  smallest  interval  that  can  give  esthetic 
pleasure.  Some  oriental  music  is  based  on  the  quarter- 
tone  scale,  and  experiment  has  shown  that  even  occidental 
subjects  can,  with  practice,  fmd  genuine  esthetic  pleasure 
in  music  containing  intervals  of  about  a  quarter-tone 
(Meyer).  Emerson  has  experimented  with  "melodies" 
composed  of  sounds  whose  vibration-rates  all  fall  within 
the  limits  of  a  single  musical  tone.  He  reports  that  his 
subjects  found  pleasure  in  many  of  these  melodies,  and 
that  their  favorite  intervals  were  from  four  to  eight  vibra- 
tions less  than  the  full  tone  or  the  semitone. 

The  modern  diatonic  scale  must  be  explained  as  an 
historical  development  rather  than  as  a  combination  of 
intervals  which  in  themselves  are  the  most  pleasing  to 
the  ear.  Our  scale  goes  back  to  the  arrangement  of 
tones  on  the  Greek  tetrachord.  This  was  a  four-stringed 
instrument  of  which  the  first  and  last  strings  were  sepa- 
rated by  the  musical  interval  of  the  fourth.  When  two 
of  these  tetrachords  were  set  together,  with  the  lowest 
note  of  one  and  the  highest  note  of  the  other  tuned  just 
an  octave  apart,  the  following  intervals  appeared.     Now 


:i 


the  interval  between  the  two  middle  notes,  the  fourth  and 
fifth,  is  one  tone,  and  in  each  tetrachord  there  is  room  for 
about  two  and  a  half  such  tones.  The  Greeks  filled  up 
the  scale  with  these  tones  and  semitones.  They  did  not 
always  arrange  them  in  the  same  order,  but  within  each 
tetrachord    they    placed    them    sometimes    as    semitone, 


114  MUSIC 


tone,  tone;  again  as  tone,  semitone,  tone;  or  as  tone,  tone, 
semitone.  This  last  arrangement  gives  us  the  order  of 
our  own  diatonic  scale.     The  different  orders  of  tone 


-G>- 

tone         tone  semi-tone  tone      tone       tone       semi-tone. 

and  semitone  gave  rise  to  different  modes  or  characters 
of  scale.  These  survived,  under  changed  names,  as  the 
ecclesiastical  modes  of  the  middle  ages. 

Now  the  tones  of  the  pure  diatonic  scale,  i.e.,  as  derived 
from  the  vibration-rates  of  sounding-strings,  are  not  all 
equal,  nor  are  the  semitones  really  half-tones.  The 
vibration-rates  are  as  follows  to  each  other: 

CDE  F  GABC 

24     27    30      32      36     40    45    48 
8/9    9/10   15/16     8/9     9/10   8/9    15/16 

Major  tone    Minor  tone      Semitone      Major  tone      Minor  tone    Major  tone  Semitone 

It  is  evident  that  if  one  tried  to  transpose  a  melody  on 
this  scale  the  intervals  would  come  out  wrong.  But  if 
the  major  and  minor  tones  were  made  equal  and  the 
whole  scale  filled  up  with  exact  semitones,  then  a  melody 
might  start  on  any  note  of  the  scale  and  proceed  with 
the  proper  intervals.  With  the  rise  of  instrumental  music 
there  came  a  demand  for  a  freer  use  of  chromatic  inter- 
vals, and  of  modulations  from  key  to  key.  But  with  a 
keyed  instrument  it  would  make  an  unmanageable  key- 
board if  all  the  perfect  major  and  minor  tones,  all  the 
perfect  sharps  and  flats,  were  included.  For  the  sake 
of  transposing — and  this  in   a   rapid   and   convenient 


THE   SCALE  Il5 

manner  —  the  scale  of  equal  temperatnent  was  devised, 
in  which  the  whole  tones  are  equalized,  and  between  the 
notes  of  the  whole  tones  other  tones  are  inserted  to 
serve  as  the  flat  of  the  higher  and  the  sharp  of  the  lower. 
The  whole  scale  is  thus  made  up  of  twelve  semitones. 
This  is  by  no  means  an  exhaustive  account  of  the 
changes  which  have  taken  place  in  the  development  of 
the  modern  scale,  but  enough  has  been  said  to  show  that 
the  intervals  we  now  use  were  not  chosen  because  of  any 
superior  sensuous  charm. 

Two  modes  are  recognized  in  modern  music — the  major 
and  the  minor.  They  arc  distinguished  by  differences 
in  the  order  of  tones  and  semitones.  Their  emotional 
quality  will  be  discussed  later. 

Tonality.  The  fundamental  or  key-note  of  a  scale 
is  called  its  tonic.  All  the  intervals  are  reckoned  upward 
from  this.  A  piece  of  music  is  said  to  possess  tonality 
when  it  indicates  plainly  in  what  key  it  is  composed. 
Such  a  piece  of  music  will  often  start  with  the  tonic; 
throughout  its  course  it  will  emphasize  the  notes  which 
are  strikingly  related  to  the  tonic  and  at  its  close  will 
always  return  to  the  tonic.  This  gives  the  key-note  a 
peculiar  importance.  Is  there  any  reason  for  this?  Why 
should  we  favor  the  lowest  tone  in  our  scale  and  always 
close  on  that  ?  Let  the  student  play  alternately,  several 
times,  C  and  G,  closing  now  on  one  and  now  on  the  other. 
Then  let  him  try  other  intervals  in  the  same  way,  as  C-E 
and  C-F.  He  will  be  pretty  sure  to  find  with  C  and  G 
that  C  makes  the  better  ending,  with  C  and  E  that  C 
is  better,  and  with  C  and  F  that  F  is  the  more  final  and 
satisfying    close.     These    experiments    may    be    carried 


Il6  MUSIC 

further  and  the  results  formulated  in  this  way:^  When 
two  notes  are  sounded  in  succession  we  find  that  we  like 
to  end  on  the  note  which  is  represented  by  a  power  of 
two  in  the  ratio  of  its  vibration-rate  to  the  vibration-rate 
of  the  other  note.  For  example,  the  ratio  of  vibration- 
rates  for  C:G  is  2:3,  and  here  we  find  that  we  like  to  end 
on  the  note  which  is  represented  by  2/  Again,  the  ratio 
of  C:E  is  4:5,  and  here  the  lower  note  represented  by 
2^  is  the  preferred  close.  The  ratio  for  C  :F  is  3  4,  and 
in  this  case  we  find  that  the  higher  note  gives  the  feel- 
ing of  finality.  All  semitone  successions  (their  ratio  is 
15  :i6)  should  end  on  the  higher  note.  In  some  intervals, 
however,  neither  note  is  represented  by  a  power  of  2; 
the  major  sixth  has  the  ratio  3:5  and  the  minor  third  5:6. 
In  the  octave,  on  the  contrary,  both  notes  i  :2  are  powers 
of  2  (i  =2°).  In  these  cases  another  consideration  comes 
in  to  determine  which  is  the  better  close.  As  Meyer 
shows,  the  "falling  inflection,"  or  close  on  the  lower 
tone,  is  preferred.  Coming  back  now  to  the  question 
about  the  key-note  we  can  see  some  reason  why  this 
should  be  the  closing  note.  It  is  lower  than  all  the 
others  when  in  its  normal  position,  and  hence  has  falling 
inflection  in  its  favor.  Its  vibration-rate  as  compared 
with  the  interval  of  the  second,  the  major  third,  the  fifth 
and  the  seventh  is  a  power  of  2.  The  tonic  thus  forms 
a  point  of  orientation,  or  of  common  reference  in  the  scale, 
and  this  reference  to  the  tonic,  this  feeling  for  the  key,  is 
about  as  important  for  purposes  of  musical  composition 
and  design  as  the  sense  of  direction  is  for  the  designer  in 
space  forms. 

^  See  Meyer:  "The  Psychology  of  Music,"  Am.  Jour.  xiv. 


TONALITY  117 

Thus  far  we  have  spoken  only  of  the  feelings  of  finality 
which  obtain  between  simple  tones.  In  successions  of 
chords  the  feeling  of  finality  is  even  more  emphatic  than 
with  simple  tones.  Let  any  one  try  the  two  following  pro- 
gressions 1-2  and  1-3  playing  them  both  forward  and 
backward.  In  going  from  i  to  2  it  is  evident  that  we 
get  a  combination  of  finality  feelings.  It  is  true  that  we 
go  from  F  to  E,  which  by  itself  is  contrary  to  finality. 


But  we  also  go  from  D  to  C,  and  from  B  to  C,  both  being 
successions  toward  a  power  of  2;  and  further,  the  chords 
as  a  whole  form  a  progression  from  dominant  to  tonic, 
that  is,  from  G  to  C,  which  again  is  toward  a  power  of  2. 
In  progressing  from  chord  i  to  chord  3  the  steps  from 
D  to  C,  from  B  to  C,  and  from  G  to  E  flat  are  all  in 
the  direction  of  finality;  and  again,  the  chords  as  a  whole 
are  a  progress  from  G  to  C.  It  would  seem  from  this 
that  the  minor  chord  ought  to  give  a  greater  sense  of 
ending  than  the  major,  but  there  is  another  factor  which 
works  against  that  result.  In  chords  we  are  dealing  with 
consonances  and  dissonances,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  it  is 
only  the  consonances  which  give  the  feeling  of  stability 
and  rest.  The  fact,  therefore,  that  our  minor  chord  is 
less  consonant  than  the  major  works  against  it  as  a 
satisfying  close. 

Rhythm.  With  us,  as  with  primitive  peoples,  the 
rhythmic  clement  in  music  is  extremely  important.  A 
false  stress  changes  the  character  of  a  melody  quite  as 
much  if  not  more  than  a  false  pitch.     It  is  a  common  ex- 


ii8 


MUSIC 


perience  to  find  in  trying  to  recollect  an  air  that,  when  the 
"  swing"  of  the  music  comes  back,  the  tones  easily  follow. 
These  measures, from  a  song  of  Thomas  Arne's,show  how 
completely  the  effect  of  a  melody  is  altered  by  a  change  of 


M 


a 


p 


:etc.i: 


rhythmic  form.  The  last  group  of  ten  notes  repeats 
exactly  the  same  sequence  of  pitch  intervals  as  the  first 
ten  notes,  giving  them  in  the  same  length  of  time  and  with 
the  same  number  of  quarter  and  eighth  notes,  and  yet 
the  rhythmic  form  is  so  different  that  it  requires  a  com- 
plete motor  readjustment  on  the  part  of  the  singer  and 
the  hearer.  An  acquaintance  of  mine  had  known  this 
tune  —  enough  to  play  and  sing  it  accurately  —  for  as 
much  as  a  year  without  realizing  that  she  was  singing  the 
same  pitch  intervals  in  those  two  phrases. 

In  music  a  strict  distinction  is  maintained  between 
stress  accent  and  quantitative  accent.  Stress  is  indicated 
either  by  the  position  of  a  note  in  the  measure  —  the  first 
note  usually  receiving  the  stress  —  or  by  special  marks  of 
emphasis.     Length  of  tone  is  indicated  by  the  form  of  the 


I      N 
S     4 


etc. 


notes,  as    5,       J 

The  music  of  the  medieval  church  was  arranged  so 
as  practically  to  suppress  rhythmic  effect.  Parry  writes 
on   this  point   as  follows:^    "The    separate  voice-parts 

*  Oxford  Hist,  of  Music,  vol.  iii. 


RHYTHM   IN   MUSIC  I  I9 

sometimes  had  rhythmic  qualities  of  their  own,  but  they 
were  purposely  put  together  in  such  a  way  as  to  counteract 
any  obvious  effect  of  rhythm  running  simultaneously 
through  all  the  parts;  .  .  ,  the  music  represents  the 
physical  inactivity  of  a  congregation  in  the  act  of  Christian 
worship,  wherein,  unhke  some  Pagan  religious  ceremonies, 
muscular  manifestations  are  excluded,  and  everything 
is  confined  to  the  activities  of  the  inner  man.  This  is  the 
ultimate  meaning  of  the  exclusion  of  rhythm  from  the  old 
church  music.  To  the  old  composers  rhythm  evidently 
represented  physical  action,  the  attribute  of  the  perish- 
able body,  and  was  therefore  essentially  secular." 

With  the  rise  of  artistic  secular  music  and  the  develop- 
ment of  instrumental  style,  rhythm  once  more  assumed  its 
natural  and  important  place,  which  in  folk-music  it  had 
never  lost.  Its  connection  with  the  dance  became  signal- 
ized by  the  fact  that  much  of  the  best  secular  music  of 
the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  was  inspired  by 
dance  rhythms  and  some  of  it  written  expressly  as  an 
accompaniment  to  the  dance.  The  practice  of  executing 
suites  of  dances  in  which  the  slow  and  the  quick  dances 
alternated  called  for  corresponding  music,  and  this  led 
to  the  writing  of  music  in  the  successive  divisions  known 
as  "  movements." 

Modern  music  recognizes  more  and  more  the  rich 
field  for  variation  which  complexities  of  rhythm  afford. 
This  passage  from  Brahms  (p.  120)  shows  an  interesting 
arrangement.  Beginning  with  the  bass  there  is  in  the 
first  measure  a  rhythm  of  i  2  3  4'  5  6  7  8',  but  in  the 
next  measure,  when  we  get  to  the  second  half,  the  accent 
is  slid  over  to  the  fifth  note,  thus  indicating  that  this 


120 


MUSIC 


measure  is  in  i'  2  3  4  5'  6  7  8  rhythm.  The  third  meas- 
ure, however,  comes  back  to  the  type  of  the  first,  and 
the  fourth  to  the  second.     There  are  thus  in  the  bass  two 


alternating  kinds  of  rhythm.  The  same  thing  is  true 
of  the  upper  part  taken  by  itself:  beginning  with  the  first 
full  measure  the  rhythm  is  i'  2  3  4  5'  6  7  8,  but  in  the 
second  the  strong  accent  comes  on  the  fourth,  thus  in- 
dicating a  change  to  the  other  type,  etc.  Now,  as  an  added 
complexity  the  upper  and  lower  parts  are  so  placed  that 
while  one  is  going  1^23  4,  the  other  is  going  1234. 
This  contention  between  the  rhythms  leads  to  a  conflict, 
in  the  mind  (and  body)  of  the  hearer,  between  motor 
impulses.  This  conflict  of  impulses  is  the  basis  of  the 
emotion  which  attaches  to  our  enjoyment  of  such  a 
rhythmic  scheme. 


MELODY  121 

Melody.  A  melody  is  a  succession  .  of  notes  which 
show  some  degree  of  consistency  or  unity.  The  simplest 
type  of  musical  "  composition  "  is  the  reiteration  of  some 
characteristic  group  of  notes.  This  is  exemplified  in  sav- 
age music,  where  the  only  kind  of  "  development  "  which 
a  motive  receives  is  undying  repetition.  With  the  civilized 
sense  for  organization  there  comes  a  taste  for  higher 
organization  in  melodic  forms.  Melody,  for  us,  must 
show  more  than  this  primitive  iteration  —  it  must  have 
contrast,  symmetry  and  balance. 

Modern  music  must  emphasize  not  only  the  tonic, 
but  it  must  also  give  a  certain  prominence  to  other  notes 
which  contrast  with  it,  particularly  to  the  dominant  or 
complementary  note.  It  is  a  principle  of  musical  design 
that  there  should  be  a  movement  away  from  the  key-note 
toward  the  contrasting  note,  and  then,  eventually,  from 
the  contrasting  note  back  to  the  tonic.  Now,  in  any  dis- 
cussion of  melodic  form  the  analogy  between  music  and 
language  becomes  apparent.  Although  in  both  there  is 
room  for  a  great  deal  of  arbitrary  arrangement,  yet,  just 
as  words  must  follow  one  another  in  certain  ways  in 
order  to  make  linguistic  sense,  so,  too,  tones  must  follow 
one  another  within  prescribed  ways  in  order  to  make 
melodic  sense.  The  simplest  melodic  unity  is  the  phrase. 
A  musical  phrase  is  commonly  two  measures  in  length , 
though  it  may  be  more  or  less.  This  is  enough  to  suggest 
rhythmic  character.  The  next  higher  unity  usually 
combines  two  phrases  into  a  group  known  as  an  "ante- 
cedent" or  "question."  The  antecedent,  then,  combined 
with  its  "consec^uent"  or  "answer"  forms  a  "period." 
These  eight  measures  from  Haydn  make  a  period  com- 


122  MUSIC 


posed  of  four  phrases,  the  first  two  phrases  constituting 
the  antecedent,  and  the  last  two  the  consequent.  A 
period  is  considered  to  be  a  coherent  musical  idea,  and 
is  the  analogue  of  the  sentence  or  statement  in  the  lan- 


guage  of  words.  A  period  by  itself  is  not  a  full  musical 
form,  but  is  the  basis  on  which  any  modern  form  is 
founded.  It  is  evident,  indeed,  in  the  above  quotation 
from  Haydn,  that  there  must  be  a  return  movement  from 
the  dominant  to  the  tonic.  The  simplest  complete 
structure  is  the  grouping  of  two  periods  which  stand 
toward  one  another  as  antecedent  and  consecjuent.  This 
gives  the  song  form.  The  folk-tune  quoted  on  page  123 
is  an  example,  and  illustrates  well  the  symmetrical  form. 
In  it  the  two  phrases  balance  in  each  line;  *  the  first  line 
and  the  third  are  antecedents  balanced  by  their  respective 
consequents,  the  second  line  and  fourth;  and  the  first  and 
second  lines  together  balance  with  the  third  and  fourth 
together. 

The  most  prolific  source  of  melodic  ideas  is  the  folk- 
music  of  various  races.  These  songs,  though  they  may 
follow  exactly  some  traditional  and  general  structure, 
have  each  a  characteristic  savor  which  expresses  some 
racial  trait.  Even  races  so  nearly  akin  as  the  Irish  and 
Scotch  have  some  striking  differences  in  their  musical 

^  The  half-notes  mark  the  ends  of  the  lines. 


MELODY 


123 


ideas.  It  is  true  that  certain  melodies  are  a  common 
heritage  of  these  two  peoples,  but  here  is  part  of  one  which 
is  distinctively  Scotch  and  another  which  is  characteristi- 

,.— N V r— — r ^ N 


i 


:i 


--P- 


ffi^ 


i--t-f 


^tz=a^ 


tr- 


izri: 


cally  Irish  (see  below).  Parry  gives  this  latter  tune 
as  one  of  the  most  perfect  examples  of  what  he  calls 
the  emotional  type.  He  says:^  ''The  cumulation  of 
crises  rising  higher  and  higher  is  essentially  an  emo- 
tional method  of  design."  Folk-music  carries  a  certain 
guarantee  of  worth  along  with  it;  for  a  melody  which  is 
produced  without  theoretical  preconceptions,  which  has 
little  or  no  harmony  to  support  it,  and  which  gets  accepted 
and  sung  by  successive  generations,  must  have  something 
genuine  about  it. 


^^^^ 


s-* — 


q=q=q=1: 


^=zM=zJ=M: 


-^ 


i 


& 


^^fig^zS^EE^r^ 


'  "  The  Evolution  of  the  Art  of  Musk." 


124 


MUSIC 


Another  source  of  characteristic  melody  is  the  body  of 
music  which  grew  up  around  the  ritual  of  the  medieval 
church.  It  is  more  limited  in  range  of  emotional  expres- 
sion than  folk-music,  because  it  is  the  medium  of  an 
institution,  not  of  the  instincts  of  a  people.  Yet  some 
of  it  is  very  perfect  in  its  kind.  This  music  was  written 
in  the  ecclesiastical  modes,  and,  just  as  we  feel  that  there 
are  distinctive  qualities  about  the  major  and  minor  scales 
and  the  melodies  that  are  written  in  them,  so  the  medie- 
vals  felt  the  distinctive  qualities  of  their  eight  modes.  It 
is,  in  part,  this  difference  in  scale  which  makes  the  ancient 
plain-song  sound  strange  to  modern  ears.  An  example  of 
this  type  of  melody  is  the  following  possibly  familiar  tune, 
a  Stabat  Mater  from  the  church  hymnal.  But  no  matter 
how  well  one  may  know  such  a  melody  it  will  always 
remain  characteristically  remote  from  our  other  musical 
experiences. 


csiz s — 0 — e 1 « — * — 9- 


^- 


-jtzMz 


:t 


--^- 


-4-9-9 


U- 


• — ^ 


ANCIENT   PLAIN-SONG  125 

The  ecclesiastical  scale  or  mode  in  which  this  is  written 
is  as  follows: 


1^^^!] 


in  which  the  semitones  stand  in  the  lov/cst  positions  of 
the  tetrachords.  The  tonic  of  this  medieval  scale  is  not 
the  lowest  note  B  but  the  fourth^  above  it,  namely,  E, 
and  the  dominant  is  not  the  fifth  above  this  tonic,  but  the 
fourth  above  it,  namely,  A.  Thepoint  in  theabovc  melody 
where  the  scale  quality  strikes  us  most  is  in  the  closing 
interval  D-E,  which  occurs  at  the  end  of  the  fourth 
measure,  between  the  fifth  and  sixth  measures,  and  the 
seventh  and  eighth  measures,  and  finally  at  the  last  close. 
This  is  a  whole-tone  interval,  whereas  in  the  modern 
scale  the  tone  which  leads  up  to  the  tonic  is  only  a  semi- 
tone. The  effect  of  medieval  church  music  depends  not 
merely,  of  course,  upon  its  formal  conditions,  but  upon 
the  fact,  as  well,  that  it  expresses  the  moods  which  be- 
long with  medieval  religion, — a  religion  of  asceticism 
and  the  denial  of  worldly  interests.  As  long,  however, 
as  there  remains  for  us  any  charm  in  "old,  unhappy 
far-off  things,"  these  melodies,  with  their  grave  and 
alien  beauty,  will  hold  a  place  as  a  source  of  esthetic 
enjoyment. 

Polyphony.  In  polyphonic,  or  many-voiced  music, 
there  is  a  weaving  together  of  two  or  more  independent 
melodies  in  such  a  way  as  to  preserve  their  individuality, 

'  Notice  (p.  115)  that  in  the  interval  of  the  fourth  the  higher  note  has 
the  end-quaUty. 


1 26  MUSIC 

and  yet  to  make  them  harmonious  with  one  another. 
In  the  early  church,  singing  in  unison  was  the  regular 
practice.  But  it  was  not  always  easy  for  the  high  and 
the  low  voices  to  carry  the  same  melody,  and  hence  the 
practice  arose  of  doubling  the  tune,  the  lower  voices 
being  pitched  sometimes  a  fifth,  sometimes  a  fourth, 
below  the  upper.  This  was  not  wholly  satisfactory  from 
the  artistic  point  of  view,  and  gradually  certain  differ- 
ences were  introduced  into  the  accompanying  part,  till  at 
length  it  became  a  melody  with  character  of  its  own. 
This  was  the  origin  of  polyphony.  It  is  essentially  a 
choral  art,  and  the  structure  of  the  music  reflects  this 
fact.  Music  which  is  to  be  rendered  by  a  mass  of  human 
voices  cannot  have  the  wide  range  of  pitch,  the  rapidity 
of  execution,  the  free  use  of  chromatics,  etc.,  which  are 
possible  and  proper  for  instrumental  music.  It  must 
be  more  deliberate  and  sustained,  and  must  move  by 
plain,  easy  intervals.  This  is  a  good  example  of  how 
the  composer's  thought  is  molded  by  the  medium 
through  which  he  expresses  himself.  The  artist  with 
a  polyphonic  imagination  always  works  within  these 
conditions  of  his  art,  namely,  that  each  part  must  have 
individual  interest,  and  must  progress  in  a  singable 
manner.  One  of  the  elements  of  beauty  in  polyphony 
is  the  independent  motion  of  the  voices.  In  this  example 
(from  a  litany  by  Palestrina)  ^  the  bass  and  tenor  have 


:J^ 


=F 


-s^- 


|^z=s: 


r\' 

iTi 

(?         ^. 

1 — «?— 

1 

T' 

^                         '                        ^ 

^ 

^            \s\- 

\            1 

1 

tt ! 

'  Oxford  Hist,  of  Music,  vol  ii. 


POLYPHONY   AND    HARMONY  12/ 

contrary  motion,  except  in  the  fourth  step  and  the  last. 
Each  melody  is  attractive,  and  as  it  moves  we  are  impelled 
to  follow  it;  but  then  the  exciting  moment  comes  when 
we  realize  that  the  two  are  moving  in  different  directions 
and  that  we  want  to  go  both  ways  at  once.  This  conflict 
of  impulses  is  the  basis  of  our  emotion.  But  the  conflict 
is  prevented  from  becoming  a  painful  disruption,  and  a 
pleasant  affective  tone  is  given  to  the  emotion  by  the 
harmony  between  the  parts  and  by  the  occasional  move- 
ment in  the  same  direction.  Polyphonic  music,  more 
than  any  other  perhaps,  is  fitted  to  enlist  attention  in 
one  direction,  then  to  solicit  it  in  another,  and  so  to 
keep  the  hearer  in  a  state  of  excitement  which  often 
threatens  to  become  distraction.  When,  however,  it  has 
sufficient  unity  and  clearness  there  is  nothing  more  perfect 
musically. 

Harmony.  Harmony,  as  against  melody,  is  concerned 
with  the  succession  of  chords  or  clangs  rather  than  of 
simple  tones.  To  combine  dissonances  and  consonances 
in  agreeable  and  intelligible  progressions  is  its  chief  prob- 
lem. At  first  thought  it  might  seem  that  the  chief  advan- 
tage of  harmony,  its  chief  difference  from  melody,  lay  in 
the  production  of  greater  richness  and  fullness  of  sound. 
But  though  the  sensuous  charm  of  full  consonances  is  an 
essential  thing,  it  is  no  more  the  whole  of  harmony  than 
the  single  tone  is  the  whole  of  melody.  If  harmony  were 
no  more  than  the  addition  of  chords,  i.e.,  if  it  were  analo- 
gous with  rich  tone,  we  might  logically  expect  that  we 
could  improve  a  melody  by  playing  it  in  consecutive  fifths 
or  major  thirds,  since  these  are  good  consonances.  In 
fact,  of  course,  it  would  spoil  the  melody.     The  point 


128 


MUSIC 


to  be  insisted  upon  is  that  the  progression  of  chords  is 
almost  a  separate  art-medium  and  is  vitally  different  from 
the  progression  of  single  tones. 

Polyphonic  music  is  harmonious,  but  the  conception  of 
polyphonic  music  and  that  of  harmonic  music  are  different. 
In  polyphonic,  the  chief  consideration  is  the  progress  of 
the  individual  voices,  and  the  fact  that  they  harmonize 
is  more  an  incidental  necessity  than  a  final  aim.  Har- 
mony, on  the  other  hand,  is  homophonic.  In  it  the  sepa- 
rate parts  do  not  stand  out  individually,  but  all  are  more 
or  less  subordinated  to  one  part.  Harmonic  chords, 
therefore,  while  they  are  more  varied  and  complex  than 
single  tones,  are  more  single  and  unified  than  the  chords 
of  polyphony. 

Now,  although  harmony  never  means  the  simple  addi- 
tion of  consonances,  yet  we  may  distinguish  these  two 
ways  in  which  a  melody  may  be  harmonized:  One  in 
which  the  chords  enrich  and  emphasize  the  melody 
without  essentially  modifying  its  character,  and  another 
in  which  the  chords  do  modify  the  character  and  emo- 
tional coloring  of  the  melody.  The  following  cadence 
from  Bach^  is  an  example  of  the  first  i<:ind;    its  minor 


'  "  The  Passion  According  to  St.  Matthew  "  final  chorus. 


HARMONY 


129 


Schubert 


:-tt^ 


^-f— r-^^ 


=S4=S4:=?S?=jgT=t 


-=r 


9^.^= 


-s- 


■J 


^ 


harmonies  increase  the  effect  but  do  not  alter  the  meaning 
of  the  melody.  The  chords  from  Schubert  ^  which  follow 
it  enter  more  vitally  into  their  melody  and  really  change 
it.  Without  the  accompaniment  the  melody  would  be  a 
purely  minor  one,  but  with  the  accompaniment  there  are 
two  changes  into  the  major.  We  may  say  that  the  melody 
is  ostensibly  one  thing,  but  really  another.  Here  we  have 
a  conflict,  not  of  separate  parts,  as  in  polyphony,  but 
rather  a  conflict  between  possible  interpretations.     It  is  a 


Eriking. 


I30  MUSIC 

subtle  contest  between  the  leading  part  and  the  harmonic 
setting,  and  the  more  keenly  we  feel  these  individual 
factors  the  more  vivid  is  our  pleasure  in  their  final 
union. 

The  aim  of  harmony  is  not  the  possession  of  con- 
sonances, but  the  achieving  them.  Harmony  is  the 
transition  from  dissonance  to  concord,  or  the  deduction, 
by  some  diversified  and  adventurous  path,  of  unity  out 
of  dissonance,  agreement  out  of  disagreement.  It  is  not 
the  concord  by  itself  that  we  like,  still  less  the  harsh  dis- 
sonance but  it  is  the  process  by  which  one  is  evolved 
from  the  other  which  we  enjoy.  Creative  imagination 
implies,  in  this  connection,  the  perception  of  musical 
similarities;  and  the  essentially  constructive  thing  is  the 
perception,  on  the  composer's  part,  of  some  identity  be- 
tween this  dissonance  and  that  consonance.  Of  course  this 
perception  of  a  relationship  is  not  the  whole  story.  There 
are  different  ways  of  resolving  a  dissonance,  and  the 
composer  knows  enough  about  them  to  make  a  choice. 
The  intervening  chords  which  he  finally  writes  are  his 
means  of  expressing  and  demonstrating  the  connection 
between  the  dissonance  and  consonance. 

Historically,  the  development  of  harmonic  principles 
went  hand  in  hand  with  the  development  of  instrumental 
resources  and  the  reorganization  of  the  scale.  Modern 
music  has,  therefore,  opportunities  for  key-contrasts  and 
for  varieties  in  tone-color  which  were  beyond  the  scope 
of  the  older  schools.  The  wider  the  possibilities  of 
variation  and  contrast  which  it  affords,  the  wider  is 
the  range  of  emotional  experience  which  the  art  of  music 
can  render. 


EXPRESSIVENESS    IN   MUSIC  I3I 

Expressiveness  in  Music.  In  speaking  of  tones,  chords, 
scales,  rhythms,  etc.,  we  have  been  deahng  with  the  formal 
side  of  music.  But  even  in  the  very  elements  of  form 
we  may  find  elements  of  expressiveness.  Thus  a  single 
tone  may  express  a  greater  or  a  less  degree  of  excitement 
according  as  it  is  high  or  low  in  pitch,  loud  or  soft  in 
intensity,  brilliant  or  dull  in  clang-tint.  A  single  chord 
expresses  restlessness  if  it  is  dissonant,  stability  if  it  is 
consonant.  The  scale  alone  expresses  one  thing  if  it  is 
major,  another  if  minor,  one  thing  if  it  is  played  up,  and 
another  if  it  is  played  down.  Pure  rhythm  has  also  some 
expressive  power,  as  we  have  seen. 

The  analogy  between  music  and  speech  is  a  close  and 
suggestive  one.  Indeed,  the  theory  that  music  is  a  kind 
of  impassioned  speech  has  vitally  affected  the  develop- 
ment of  certain  musical  forms,  namely,  the  opera  and 
the  lyric  song.  Wagner  in  opera  and  Schubert  in  the 
lyric  have  notably  suited  their  music  to  the  words  that 
it  accompanies.  But  even  music  which  is  not  associated 
with  words,  music  which  is  concerned  with  more  purely 
formal  problems,  shows  a  strong  linguistic  quality. 
The  phrases,  periods,  cadences  of  musical  form  have 
their  like,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  phrases,  periods  and 
cadences  of  verbal  language.  The  difference  which 
forever  separates  the  two  is  that  each  word  has  a  specified 
intellectual  function,  a  particular  intention  of  its  own 
which  is  more  or  less  independent  of  the  pitch,  intensity 
and  clang-tint  with  which  the  word  is  pronounced. 
Music  cannot  reproduce  these  special  intentions;  for 
if  it  were  literally  possible,  say,  to  translate  a  poem  into 
music,  i.e.,  if  there  were  an  essential  identity  between 


132 


MUSIC 


certain  words  and  certain  tone  combinations,  then  any 
musical  person  ought  to  be  able  to  write  out  the  poem  on 
hearing  the  music,  or  the  music  on  hearing  the  poem. 
What  music  can  do  is  to  represent  the  general  intonation 
of  language  and  much  of  its  emotional  effect.  The 
following  example  *  is  a  specimen  of   musical   intervals 


-n — ^- 


fc=p=t:=t=r: 


£ 


^\ 


-F- 


Sic  can  -  ta  com-ma,  sic   du  -  o    punc-ta  :  sic     ve  -  ro  punc-tum. 


:^i=z^=p: 


:t=P=t: 


Sic    sig  -  num  in  -  ter  -  ro  -  ga  -  ti  -    o  -  nis  ? 

imitating  the  intonations  of  speech.  It  is  a  formula 
from  an  old  church  manual  and  directs  the  singers  of  the 
liturgy  hbw  to  punctuate  their  music.  The  following 
specimen  from  Haydn  -  is  a  good  example  of  the  talking 
quality  of  pure  music. 


Presto 


j== 


:p=j:: 


H 


'  Quoted  from  Helmholtz. 

^  Quoted  in  Oxford  Hist,  of  Music,  vol.  v. 


EXPRESSIVENESS    IN    MUSIC  133 

The  expressiveness  of  music  is  increased  by  another 
analogy  which  it  exhibits.  This  is  the  analogy  between 
music  and  action.  The  rhythmic  element  in  music,  or 
its  temporal  succession,  inevitably  stimulates  and  sug- 
gests movement  of  some  kind,  while  the  pitch  variations 
tend  to  qualify  the  nature  of  that  movement.  These 
actual  or  incipient  movements  help  us  to  fancy,  as  we 
follow  a  piece  of  music,  that  it  is  we  ourselves  who  are 
moving  forward,  now  exalted,  now  depressed,  now 
hurrying,  now  dallying  toward  some  wished-for  goal. 
This  identification  of  one's  own  volition  with  the  progress 
of  the  music  gives  rise  to  an  emotion  which  Puffer  calls 
"the  only  intimate,  immediate,  intrinsic  emotion  of 
music — the  illusion  of  the  triumphant  will!"^  This 
interesting  theory  has  this  merit,  among  others,  that  it 
does  justice  to  the  great  motor  suggestiveness  of  music, ^ 
though  I  am  not  sure  that  the  "  illusion  of  the  triumphant 
will"  is  not  produced  by  other  art-forms  also.  The 
analogy  between  music  and  action  must  be  qualified 
by  saying  that,  while  music  expresses  the  general  charac- 
teristics of  action,  it  cannot  of  itself  express  specific 
deeds  in  their  details. 

These  analogies  of  music  with  speech  and  with  action 
show  that  music  is  able  in  a  general  manner  to  render  the 
moods  of  human  life  and  intercourse.  It  will  be  enough 
to  review  a  few  of  the  formal  devices  by  which  this  is 
done,  to  mention,  for  example,  the  effect  of  major  and 
minor  key,  of  chromatic  and  diatonic  intervals. 

We  arc  used  to  associate  minor  strains  with  mournful 
sentiment,  but  major  ones  with  gaiety  and  cheer.     This 

'  "The  Psychology  of  Beauty,"  ch.  v. 


134  MUSIC 

distinction,  though  very  generally  felt  by  us,  is  not  a 
universal  one.  Primitive  people,  we  are  told,  do  not 
make  major  and  minor  correspond  with  moods  of  joy 
and  sadness.  Of  the  two  folk-songs  on  page  123  the 
first  one,  in  the  minor  key,  is  the  gayer  of  the  two. 
The  reason  why  we  feel  a  somber  quality  in  the  minor 
is  explained  by  Helmholtz  on  the  ground  of  the  dissonant 
combination-tones  which  are  present  in  minor  chords. 
He  says:*  "The  foreign  element  thus  introduced  into  the 
minor  chord  is  not  sufficiently  distinct  to  destroy  the  har- 
mony, but  it  is  enough  to  give  a  mysterious,  obscure  effect 
to  the  musical  character  and  meaning  of  these  chords." 
The  unsatisfying  character  of  the  minor  is  probably  due 
not  alone  to  the  fact  of  dissonance,  but  in  part  also  to  the 
fact  that  the  minor  represents  a  sort  of  defeated  expec- 
tation. The  major  scale  is  really  our  fundamental  scale,, 
and  the  major  third  is  its  characteristic  interval;  when,, 
therefore,  we  hear  any  third  it  seems  not  unreasonable  to 
suppose  that  we  hear  it  in  terms  of  the  major  third  as  a. 
standard.  If  the  interval  we  hear  is  a  major  third,  it 
coincides  with  the  standard  and  we  accept  it  with  a  kind 
of  half-conscious  satisfaction.  But  if  the  interval  we  hear 
is  a  minor  third,  we  have  a  slight  feeling  of  discrepancy,, 
as  if  the  interval  had  failed  to  reach  its  due  proportion. 
I  do  not  mean  that  we  have  the  major  third  clearly  in 
mind,  and  that  we  purposely  stop  for  a  comparison,  but 
merely  that  the  minor  third  gives  an  impression  of  having 
fallen  short  of  an  expectation.  This  explanation  would 
allow  for  the  fact  that  primitive  peoples  seem  not  to  feel 
the  depressing  effect  of  the  minor;  for  with  them  the  scale 

'  "  Sensations  of  Tone." 


EXPRESSIVENESS    IN    MUSIC  135 

organization  is  incomplete  and  they  would  not  be  expected 
to  feel  the  significance  of  the  interval  of  the  third.  The 
emotional  effect  of  defeated  expectation  is  pretty  clearly 
illustrated  in  this  close  from  Bach's  "Golgotha"  in  the 
St.  Matthew  Passion.     Here  the  first  notes  belong  in  the 


chord  of  the  seventh  which  would  find  its  resolution 
in  the  chord  of  the  tonic  but  they  are  never  resolved; 
for,  instead  of  striking  the  tonic  the  melody  ends,  with 
poignant  effect,  on  the  semitone  below. 

The  use  of  chromatic  intervals,  particularly  if  com- 
bined with  a  slow  portamento,  oftentimes  expresses  sub- 
tlety, languor  and  passion;  whereas  the  use  of  diatonic 
intervals,  and  particularly  of  arpeggios,  leaves  an  impres- 
sion of  clearness  and  vigor.  The  love-phrase  from 
Tristan  and  Isolde  ascends  by  chromatic  intervals;  and 
in  the  aria  from  Samson  and  Dalila,  where  Dalila  allures 
.Samson  there  is  a  whole  series  of  chromatic  descents. 
In  strongest  antithesis  stands  such  a  thing  as  Luther's 
hymn,  "Ein'  fcste  Burg,"  which  starts  off  with  three 
sohd  thumps  on  the  tonic  and  proceeds  with  good  plain 
steps. 

Differences  of  clang-tint  and  pitch  are  made  to  express 
variations  of  feeling;  low  tones  are  less  exciting  than 
high  ones,  dull  tint  is  less  stimulating  than  brilliant  tint. 
Irregularities  of  rhythm  sometimes  lend  expressiveness. 
These  phrases  from  Beethoven's  Pathetic  Sonata  illus- 
trate the  several  points  just  made: 


136  MUSIC 


They  express  strength,  pathos,  and  growing  excitement.. 
The  full  chords  give  strength,  the  irregular  rhythm  and 
rising  pitch  give  growing  excitement,  the  minor  key  and 
falling  semitone  give  it  pathos. 

Imitative  Music.  The  belief  seems  to  be  entertained 
by  some  persons  that  there  are  literally  no  limits  to  the 
things  which  music,  in  the  hands  of  a  master,  may  be 
made  to  imitate  or  express.  And  there  seem  to  be  other 
persons  who  believe  that  music  docs  not  imitate  anything, 
but  forms  a  world  by  itself  independent  of  suggestions 
from  the  world  of  ordinary  life.  We  shall  have  to  take 
the  middle  ground  of  common  sense  and  say  that  assuredly 
there  are  things  which  music  legitimately  imitates,  but 
that  there  just  as  surely  are  limits  beyond  which  it 
cannot  imitate. 

In  the  preceding  paragraphs  we  spoke  of  certain 
similarities  between  music  and  language  and  action;  and 


IMITATIVE   MUSIC  137 

we  noticed  that  music  is  able  in  a  way  to  render  some 
aspects  of  action  and  speech.  Other  things  which  it 
may  legitimately  and  beautifully  imitate  are  auditory 
impressions  like  the  songs  of  birds,  the  sound  of  wind  and 
of  water,  the  whir  of  a  spinning-wheel,  the  chime  of  bells, 
etc.  Of  course  the  imitations  are  not  so  exact  that  we 
are  fooled  by  them,  but  they  are  real,  nevertheless,  and 
the  musical  sounds  contain  sensuous  elements  similar  to 
the  things  they  represent.  The  examples  given  are  all 
auditory.  We  may,  perhaps,  go  even  further  and  say 
that  music  may,  in  a  certain  limited  sense,  represent  visual 
impressions.  In  the  chapter  on  imagination  we  said  that 
an  artist  may  suggest  similarities  or  identities  which  can 
be  grasped  only  by  feeling  and  not  by  a  definite  analysis 
of  sensuous  contents.  Such  a  case  we  find  in  Wagner's 
fire-music,  where  the  crackhng,  leaping  flames  are 
represented  partly  by  the  lively  tune  and  partly  by  the 
clang-tint  of  the  instruments  as  the  melody  mounts  up 
from  the  more  sober-tinted  ones  and  breaks  into  the 
tinkling  of  the  triangles.  There  is,  no  doubt,  a  congruity 
between  the  visual  experience  of  watching  the  fire  and 
the  auditory  experience  of  hearing  this  music,  but  the 
congruity  is  a  purely  emotional  and  general  one.  The 
music  docs  not  necessarily  and  inevitably  call  up  in  our 
minds  the  visual  picture  of  the  fire. 

In  discussions  about  "program  music,"  that  is,  music 
in  which  the  composer  tries  to  set  forth  in  some  detail 
human  character  and  action  or  natural  objects  and 
events,  in  such  discussions  Beethoven  is  sometimes 
quoted  as  saying  that  he  always  had  a  picture  in  mind 
while   he  was  composing,  and  that  he  worked  from  that. 


138  MUSIC 

The  whole  point  is  that  he  did  work  "from"  it,  and  not 
"toward"  it.  To  receive  an  inspiration  or  stimulus  from 
a  picture  is  one  thing,  but  to  try  to  reproduce  through 
music  exactly  that  picture  in  the  minds  of  other  persons 
is  quite  another  thing.  Every  artist  must  get  his  expe- 
rience from  life,  and  a  big  part  of  life  is  visual,  but  no 
matter  what  the  source  of  his  feeling  the  final  aim  of  the 
musician  is  musical  beauty,  not  rivalry  with  the  art  of 
painting. 

Character  and  Ornament.  We  often  feel  that  there 
is  a  sort  of  opposition  between  that  quality  in  a  piece  of 
music  which  we  call  its  individual  character,  and  that 
quality  by  which  it  conforms  to  certain  conventional 
standards  of  musical  beauty.  Folk-music  and  the 
music  of  the  greatest  masters  will  usually  stand  out  as 
individual,  that  is,  the  melodic  ideas  will  strike  us  as 
unique  and  as  having  some  meaning  and  some  back- 
bone, so  that  we  should  recognize  and  remember  them. 
Music,  on  the  other  hand,  which  is  too  urbane  to  show 
individuality,  depends  upon  trills,  runs,  turns,  grace- 
notes,  etc.,  for  its  beauty.  These  ornaments  are  in  the 
nature  of  standard  "properties"  which  are  attractive 
in  themselves,  and  which  may  be  added  in  the  desired 
quantity    to    any   tune.      The   very   fact   that   they   are 

"  Aileen  Aroon  " 


=1=^=J=1^ 


Robin  Adair ' 


m 


^=lt 


LS^ 


CHARACTER  AND  ORNAMENT         1 39 

common  property  tends  to  make  these  embellishments 
blot  out  the  individuality  of  any  tune  they  are  applied  to. 
An  example  of  the  unfortunate  use  of  embellishment  is 
found  in  the  English  form  of  "Robin  Adair."  It  intro- 
duces an  ornamental  change  into  the  Irish  tune  "Aileen 
Aroon,"  but  in  so  doing  it  merely  obscures  the  outline 
of  an  air  which  is  more  characteristic  and  beautiful 
without  the  change. 

There  is,  however,  a  legitimate  place  for  the  introduc- 
tion of  ornament,  and  where  it  does  not  obscure  the  char- 
acter of  the  music  it  is,  of  course,  an  added  beauty. 
There  are  cases,  indeed,  in  which  character  and  orna- 
ment coincide.  A  very  charming  example  is  found  in 
Arne's  "The  Lass  with  the  Delicate  Air."  The  effect  of 
this  music  is  undoubtedly  ornate,  and  yet  there  are  no 
superfluous  notes;  if  we  try  to  leave  out  any,  we  spoil  the 
real  spirit  of  this  polite  ditty.  We  may  even  say  that 
pure  ornament  is  also  expressive.  The  player  or  singer 
who  can  be  lavish  of  ornament  shows  thereby  a  certain 
facility  and  ease,  and  gives  the  agreeable  impression  of 
having  "  surplus  energy." 

Reading  References. 

Helmholtz:     "Sensations  of  Tone." 
Sedley-Taylor:  "The  Science  of  Music." 
Pole:  "The  Philosophy  of  Music." 
Gurney:  "The  Power  of  Sound." 
Parry:   "The  Evolution  of  the  Art  of  Music." 
Walleschek:  "Primitive  Music." 
Grosse:  "The  Beginnings  of  Art."      Chap.  x. 
Fillmore:    "The  Harmonic  Structure  of  Indian  Music."     Am. 
Anthropologist,  vol.  i. 


I40  MUSIC 

Meyer:   "  Elements  of  a  Psychological  Theory  of  Music,"  Psy. 
Rev.  vii. 

"The  Psychology  of  Music,"  Am.  Jour.,  vol.  xiv. 

Hadow^:  "Studies  in  Modem  Music." 

Puffer:  "The  Psychology  of  Beauty,"      Chap.  v. 

Emerson:    "The  Feeling-Value  of  Unmusical  Tone  Intervals," 
Harvard  Psy.  Studies,  vol.  if. 

"A  Grammar  of  Plainsong"  by  the  Benedictines  of  Stanbrook. 

"The  Oxford  Hist,  of  Music." 

Hanslick:   "  Vom  Musikalisch-Schonen." 


CHAPTER    VIII 
.    .  COLOR 

Physical  and  Physiological  Basis  of  Color.  When 
a  pencil  of  white  light  is  directed  through  a  prism  it  is 
spread  out  into  a  series  of  colors  called  the  spectrum, 
always  in  the  following  order:  red,  orange,  yellow,  green, 
blue,  violet.  The  colors  arc  produced  by  the  vibration  of 
waves  of  ether,  ranging  from  440,000  million  per  second 
for  red,  to  790,000  million  per  second  for  violet.  Pure 
color  is  the  result  of  simple  vibration-rates;  white  light 
is  the  result  of  the  combination  of  certain  vibration-rates. 
The  color  purple  docs  not  appear  in  the  spectrum,  but 
is  made  by  a  mixture  of  the  two  end  colors.  When  a 
ray  of  red  light  passes  through  the  optical  mechanism 
and  strikes  the  retina,  it  stimulates  the  endings  of,  nerves 
which  carry  the  impression  to  the  brain  and  so  give  rise 
to  the  sensation  red;  a  ray  of  yellow  light  causes  a  sensa- 
tion of  yellow  to  be  stimulated,  etc.  If  the  red  and  yellow 
rays  are  mixed  they  will  cause  a  sensation  of  orange  to  be 
stimulated,  or,  even  if  the  rays  are  not  mixed,  but  should 
both  strike  the  same  point  on  the  retina,  either  at  the 
same  time  or  in  quick  succession,  they  would  also  cause 
orange  to  be  seen.  This  is  to  say  that  color  mixture 
may  take  place  on  the  retina  itself,  the  rays  traveling 
separately  until  they  reach  that  point. 

Colors  may  vary  in  three  ways,  aside  fom  their  duration 
and  spatial  extent,  namely,  in  brightness,  in  saturation 

141 


142  COLOR 

and  in  hue.  The  brightness  of  a  color  is  determined  by 
the  amount  of  white  light  with  which  it  is  mixed.  To 
mix  a  color  with  white  or  with  black  is  to  increase  or  to 
decrease,  respectively,  its  brightness.  The  saturation  of 
a  color  may  be  called  its  fullness  or  intensity  of  tone;  hence 
perfectly  homogeneous  light  would  be  completely  sat- 
urated, and  any  mixture  would  decrease  the  saturation. 
Saturation  may  be  varied,  without  changing  the  bright- 
ness or  the  hue  of  a  color,  by  mixing  with  the  color  a  gray 
which  exactly  equals  it  in  brightness.  The  hue  of  a  color 
is  varied  by  mixing  with  it  the  colors  on  either  side  of  it 
in  the  spectrum;  thus  yellow  may  be  varied  in  two  ways 
—  toward  green  or  toward  red.  Physically  it  is  right  to 
speak  of  black  as  the  absence  of  light,  and  of  white  and 


Fig.  12. 


gray  as  colorless  light.  But,  psychologically,  black  and 
white  and  all  the  intermediate  grays  have  individuality 
and  positive  character,  and  they  are  properly  called 
colors. 


COLOR   CONTRAST  143 

Complementary  Colors.  Two  colors,  which  when 
mixed  together  produce  white  light,  are  named  comple- 
mentaries.  Every  color  has  a  complementary.  Some 
of  the  principal  pairs  are  shown  in  Fig.  12.^  The  colors 
represented  at  opposite  ends  of  each  diameter  are  com- 
plementaries,  as  red  and  blue-green,  green  and  purple. 
Black  and  white,  though  not  shown  in  the  diagram, 
should  also  be  regarded  as  a  complementary  pair. 

Color  Contrast.  When  the  eye  has  been  directed  for 
some  seconds  upon  a  colored  surface,  say  a  red  disk 
against  a  gray  ground,  and  the  disk  is  then  removed, 
letting  the  eye  rest  on  the  gray  background,  the  color 
complementary  to  the  original  will  be  observed.  This 
is  an  after-image  or  an  image  of  successive  contrast. 
When  the  eye  rests  on  a  colored  disk  against  gray  for 
several  seconds  and  the  disk  is  not  removed,  the  observer 
will  notice  that  the  complementary  color  begins  to  appear 
around  the  edge  of  the  disk,  as  if  spilling  out  from  under 
it.  This  is  simultaneous  contrast.  These  facts  mean 
that  when  a  stimulation  of  the  retina  has  lasted  a  certain 
time  there  is  a  complementary  or  compensatory  process 
set  up  in  the  eye  itself.  The  same  sort  of  thing  is  true 
of  grays;  dark  gray  induces  light  images  and  light  gray 
induces  dark  images.  These  processes,  which  appear 
so  clearly  under  experimental  conditions,  arc  operating 
all  the  time,  even  when  conditions  tend  somewhat  to 
obscure  them.  Thus,  if  blue  and  green  are  set  side  by 
side,  the  blue  tends  to  induce  orange,  but  instead  of  seeing 
the  orange  we  merely  see  the  green  modified  in  the  direc- 
tion of  orange;  the  green,  on  the  other  hand,  is  working 

'  Fig.  48.     Angell's  Psychology,    ist  ed. 


144  COLOR 

to  induce  purple,  but  what  we  see  is  thp  adjacent  blue 
modified  in  the  direction  of  purple.  When  perfect  com- 
plementaries  are  seen  together  each  color  intensifies  the 
other.  If,  therefore,  a  painter  wishes  to  give  a  special 
vividness  to  a  color  he  is  careful  to  introduce  some  touch 
of  its  complementary  into  its  near  neighborhood.  The 
painting  of  Delacroix  illustrates  the  conscious  balancing 
of  many  complementary  pairs. 

One  more  contrast  effect  must  be  mentioned.  When 
a  color  is  seen  with  white,  or  with  a  gray  lighter  than 
the  color  itself,  it  looks  dark,  as  we  have  indicated;  when 
seen  with  a  gray  darker  than  itself,  it  looks  light,  and 
these  apparent  changes  in  the  brightness  of  the  color  have 
also  an  effect  upon  the  apparent  hue.  In  a  mixed  color 
(and  any  color  which  is  available  for  artistic  work  has 
some  admixture  of  other  hues)  the  lighter  color  compo- 
nent is  emphasized  by  dark  surroundings,  and  the  darker 
component  is  emphasized  by  light  surroundings.  This 
is  easily  observed  with  orange,  which  looks  yellowish 
orange  when  it  is  surrounded  by  black,  but  looks  red- 
dish orange  when  surrounded  by  white. 

Color  Preferences.  Several  researches  have  been 
directed  upon  determining  the  relative  agreeableness 
of  different  single  colors.  Grant  Allen,  who  gathered 
reports  from  missionaries  to  many  of  the  lower  tribes, 
places  the  colors  as  follows  in  the  order  of  preference: 
red  (under  which  he  includes  yellow^),  blue,  green. 
Baldwin,  basing  his  judgment  on  the  movements  made 
by  a  child  in  reaching  out  for  different  colors,  ranges 
them  in  this  order:  blue,  red,  white,  green,  brown  (yellow 
was  not  included  in  the  tests).     Cohn  found  that  yellow 


COLOR    PREFERENCES     .  I45 

with  his  subjects  was  a  relatively  unpopular  color 
but  this  result  is  contested  by  Major  and  Baker  and 
Puffer.  Of  colors  of  the  same  hue,  but  different  satura- 
tion, Cohn's  subjects  preferred  the  more  saturated. 
Among  colors  of  about  equal  saturation  the  choice  was 
purely  individual  except  in  the  above-mentioned  case  of 
yellow.  In  some  tests  of  mine,  the  subjects  preferred 
the  colors  in  this  order  on  a  dark  background:  red, 
yellow,  green,  blue;  but  in  this  order  when  seen  on  a 
light  background:  blue,  red,  green,  yellow.  None  of 
these  tests  includes  the  color  purple,  which  is  said  by 
some  persons  to  be  a  favorite  with  children.  It  is  not 
possible  to  draw  a  reliable  conclusion  from  this  amount 
of  experimentation;  at  least  nothing  beyond  the  fact  that 
blue  and  red  stand  pretty  well,  and  that  saturated  colors 
are  liked.  We  may  add,  however,  that  light  itself  if  not 
extreme  is  highly  agreeable.  The  fondness  for  gleam, 
glitter  and  luster  is  witness  to  it.  It  is  probable  that  any 
hue  may  be  made  attractive  by  selecting  the  proper 
brightness,  saturation,  extent  of  surface,  and  color  com- 
bination in  which  to  present  it. 

The  Character  of  Colors.'      Each  color  tends  to  arouse 

'  An  interesting  article  on  "The  Perceptive  Problem  in  the  Esthetic 
Appreciation  of  Single  Colors,"  BuUough,  Brit.  Jour,  of  Psy.,  vol.  2, 
contains  the  following  paragraph  on  the  character  of  colors  :  "As  re- 
gards the  characters  or  temperaments  of  colors  in  general,  it  may  be 
roughly  stated  that  there  appears  to  exist  a  kind  of  temperamental 
contrast  between  red  and  Hue,  or  between  colors  containing  red  or 
blue.  The  character  of  a  red  or  of  a  tone  tinged  with  red  is  usually 
of  a  sympathetic,  affectionate  kind ;  it  appears  to  come  out  to  you  with 
openness  and  frankness,  while  blues  are  of  a  more  reserved,  distant,  even 
unaccessible  temperament,  somewhat  like  individuals  described  as 
'difficult  to  know.'      This  temperament  is  not  by  any  means  repellent; 


146  COLOR 

in  a  responsive  observer  a  characteristic  emotional  tone 
which  depends  in  part  upon  associational  factors  and 
in  part  upon  the  physiological  reaction  which  the  mere 
sensation  of  the  color  directly  stimulates.  The  attempt 
has  been  made  by  Fere  and  others  to  estimate  the  stim- 
ulative power  of  colors  by  measuring  the  muscular  force 
exerted  by  the  subject  when  different  colors  were  shown. 
No  thoroughly  satisfactory  or  convincing  results  have  been 
shown,  but  with  greater  refinement  of  methods  it  is  prob- 
able that  characteristic  differences  in  muscular  condition 
might  be  disclosed.  Lee  and  Thompson  give  some  in- 
trospective evidence  of  physiological  changes  incident 
to  color  experiences.  They  write :^  "Gay  colors  place 
the  field  of  respiration  high  up,  and  somber  colors  place 
it  low  down;  and  the  emotions  accompanying  these  ad- 
justments of  the  breathing  are  such  that  we  designate 
the  respective  schemes  of  color  as  gay  or  as  serious." 
Changes  of  heart-beat  have  also  been  noticed  in  connec- 
tion with  different  colors. 

Red,     Red  has  been  compared  to  the  blare  of  a  trum- 
pet —  loud  and  ringing.     It  is  also  known  as  one  of  the 

on  the  contrary  it  has  an  attraction  of  its  own,  by  the  promise  of  more 
thoughtfulness  and  greater  depth  than  red  in  its  expansiveness  seems  to 
offer.  A  similar  opposition  is  to  be  noticed  also  in  other  respects:  red 
is  by  far  the  most  active  color;  blue,  on  the  other  hand,  tends  to  con- 
templation and  reflexion.  Red  exhibits  degrees  of  energy  which  are 
sometimes  almost  overwhelming  ;  it  was  once  not  inaptly  described  to  me 
as  'gushing,'  whereas  in  blue  there  is  always  some  measure  of  coldness 
and  distant  state,  which  to  some  persons  gives  it  an  almost  haughty 
appearance.  While  red  is  impressive  by  reason  of  its  irresistible 
strength  and  power,  blue  has  something  monumental  in  its  dignified 
repose  and  its  peculiar  spaciousness."  The  author  characterizes  also 
several  other  colors. 

1  "Beauty  and  Ugliness,"  Contemp.  Rev.,  1897. 


CHARACTER    OF   COLORS  I47 

"warm"  colors.  Some  clue  to  the  emotional  effect  of  a 
color  is  gained  by  a  glance  at  the  associations  and  the 
symbolism  which  have  grown  up  around  it.  Red,  the 
color  of  blood,  is  the  symbol  of  passion  and  of  death. 
Among  the  Chinese  it  is  said  to  denote  virtue  and  truth. 
With  the  ancient  Romans  the  red  flag  was  the  battle 
signal.  In  the  middle  ages  of  Europe  the  candidate  for 
knighthood  was  invested  with  a  red  garment  in  token  of 
his  readiness  to  shed  his  blood.  In  Christian  art  Christ 
and  the  Virgin  are  very  generally  represented  as  wearing 
a  red  tunic  under  the  blue  mantle.  The  symbolic  use  of 
red  in  modern  art  is  illustrated  in  Rossetti:  in  "Dante's 
Dream"  the  angel  of  love  is  all  in  scarlet,  and  scarlet 
poppies  strew  the  floor;  and  in  "Beata  Beatrix"  there  is 
the  scarlet  dove.  A  distinction  was  made  in  religious  art 
between  different  qualities  of  the  same  color,  for  example, 
a  clear  red  denoted  a  pure  feeling,  but  a  muddy  red  was 
the  hue  of  sin.  In  Abbey's  "  Holy  Grail"  paintings  the 
robe  of  Galahad  is  a  clear  red. 

Yellow.  The  yellow  of  the  spectrum  is  the  brightest 
of  all  the  spectral  hues,  and  is  allied  to  white  in  its  effect. 
It,  too,  is  a  warm  color.  It  is  joyous  and  uplifting;  in  the 
orient  a  sacred  color,  a  symbol  of  faith  and  of  the  sun. 
The  Christian  church,  however,  made  yellow  the  color 
of  dishonor,  and  in  popular  symbolism  it  stands  for 
jealousy  and  decay.  Pale  yellow  and  gold  are  among  the 
most  adaptable  colors,  in  the  sense  of  making  pleasant 
combinations  with  almost  any  other  color. 

Both  red  and  yellow  are  usually  spoken  of  as  strong 
or  exciting  colors,  though  the  type  of  excitement  is  not 
the  same  in  both.     The  question  was  put  to  a  class  of 


148  COLOR 

Students  in  esthetics,  whether  they  ever  had  motor 
associations  with  color.  One  of  them  wrote:  "The  two 
colors  which  have  always  presented  motor  qualities  in 
a  very  marked  way  to  my  mind  are  red  and  yellow.  Red 
suggests  a  hurried  motion,  directly  forward,  not  confused 
or  disorderly,  but  frequently  accompanied  by  sounds.  .  .  . 
Yellow  has  for  me  a  whirling  quality,  as  if  the  whole 
surface  of  the  yellow  object  presented  were  filled  with 
thousands  of  minute  whirlpools  of  color  particles  that 
were  in  endless  motion.  For  this  reason  yellow  makes 
me  dizzy  if  looked  at  for  any  length  of  time."  ^  Another 
subject  wrote  that  red  suggested  "an  onward  dashing 
movement.  It  is  quick  and  stirring,  but  always  steady 
and  measured.  .  .  .  Yellow  also  gives  motor  associations 
which  are  quite  different  from  those  of  red.  The  move- 
ment is  still  quick  and  spirited,  but  rather  upward  than 
onward.  It  is  light  and  airy,  seeming  to  float  and 
curl." 

Green.  Green  belongs  to  the  cool  end  of  the  spectrum, 
and  is  less  exciting  than  the  reds  and  yellows.  Grant 
Allen  points  out  that  green,  among  primitive  peoples,  is 
relatively  unprized;  he  says  that  men  in  civilized  com- 
munities, i.e.,  in  cities  have  missed  the  green  of  the  fields 
and  woods  and  hence  have  come  to  the  appreciation  of 
it.      In    Christian    symbolism   it    stands    for    hope    and 

'  This  subject  is  an  interesting  witness  to  the  power  which  color  has 
over  some  minds.  She  acted  as  subject  in  some  laboratory  tests  in  which 
the  primary  colors  were  used.  After  observing  these  colors  for  a  short 
time  she  became  so  dizzy  that  we  stopped  the  tests.  She  felt  as  if  some- 
thing were  "pressing  down"  on  her  head,  and  the  effect  of  it  did  not 
wear  off  for  about  an  hour.  She  said  that  she  had  often  felt  this  effect 
of  bright  colors. 


CHARACTER   OF   COLORS  149 

inspiration.  We  connect  it  also  with  springtime  and 
with  growing  things. 

Blue.  Blue  is  generally  felt  to  be  cool  and  calm,  and 
to  be  suggestive  of  stillness  and  of  depth.  Ruskin  writes 
as  follows:^  "Wherever  Turner  gives  blue,  there  he 
gives  atmosphere;  it  is  air,  not  object.  Blue  he  gives 
to  his  sea;  so  docs  nature:  blue  he  gives,  sapphire-deep, 
to  his  extreme  distance;  so  docs  nature:  blue  he  gives 
to  the  misty  shadows  and  hollows  of  his  hills  .  .  .  but 
blue  he  givcs'nol,  where  detailed  and  illumined  surfaces 
are  visible."  Lafcadio  Hearn  writes  similarly,  and  says  ^ 
that  blue  appeals  to  our  ideas  of  "Altitude,  of  Vastness 
and  of  Profundity,"  and  that  it  is  the  "tint  of  distance  and 
of  vagueness."  And  again:  "Vivid  blue,  unlike  other 
bright  colors,  is  never  associated  in  our  experience  of 
nature  with  large  and  opaque  solidity.'^ 

Blue  tones,  then,  since  they  are  enveloping,  atmos- 
pheric and  spacious,  should  be  proper  for  the  decoration 
of  backgrounds,  of  walls  and  ceilings.  The  beautiful  fit- 
ness of  Puvis  de  Chavannes's  mural  paintings  is  due  in 
part  to  their  soft  prevailing  blues.  Blue  in  Christian 
art  and  in  popular  symbolism  is  the  color  for  constancy. 

White,  Gray  and  Black.  White  stimulates  a  joyful 
but  serene  mood.  It  is  the  symbolic  color  of  joy  and  of 
purity.  Gray  is  of  all  colors  the  most  sober,  quiet  and 
subtle.  A  laboratory  subject,  whose  task  was  to  look 
at  a  large  sheet  of  gray  paper  and  to  record  her  impression 
of  the  color  experience,  wrote  as  follows:  "  Visually  a 
pure  gray,  it  gives  the  impression  of  softness  and  depth. 

'  "  Modern  Painters,"  I. 

*  "  Exotics  and  Retrospectives  :  Azure  Psychology." 


I50  COLOR 

I  seem  to  hear  its  very  quietness.  Its  gentleness  of  gra- 
dation and  of  shading  suggests  grace,  facihty,  expertness. 
I  smiled  at  noticing  the  transition  (i.e.,  from  the  darker 
to  the  lighter  parts  of  the  surface).  The  whole  experience 
is  one  of  neatness,  delicacy  and  refinement,  which  ideas 
induce  a  bodily  feeling  of  reverence  or  of  deference." 
Poetically  we  find  gray  referred  to  as  a  "chastened  tinge" 
or  as  "ashen  and  sober."  Black,  by  itself,  is  melancholy 
and  depressing;  it  is  the  symbol,  among  western  peoples, 
of  grief  and  death.  It  stands  also  for  guilt.  In  combina- 
tion with  other  colors,  particularly  when  it  is  limited  in 
extent,  black  makes  the  impression  of  great  concentration 
and  strength.  No  other  color  has  more  "  character  " 
than  black. 

Color  Combinations.  Complementary  colors  are  some- 
times said  to  be  agreeable  in  combination,  but  careful 
experiments  show  that  colors  which  are  not  quite  com- 
plementary to  one  another  are  preferred  as  combina- 
tions. Baker  writes:*  "  Our  results  show  a  slight  but 
decided  preference  for  the  '  warm '  side  of  the  mani- 
foldness  of  color.  The  '  center  of  gravity  '  of  the  com- 
binations seems  always  to  be  not  in  the  middle  point  of 
the  color  circle  but  somewhere  towards  the  side  of  the 
purple,  red,  orange  and  yellow."  Her  results  hold  for 
saturated  colors.  She  finds  that  yellows  are  good  com- 
bining colors,  i.e.  are  frequently  chosen  in  combination 
with  other  colors.  The  harmonizing  quality  of  gold  has 
long  been  recognized  in  practice.  In  decorative  design 
it  often  appears  that  discordant  colors  can  be  reconciled 
by  joining  their  edges  with  a  band  of  gold.     The  gold 

'  Toronto  Studies,  I. 


COLOR   COMBINATIONS  I51 

backgrounds  of  Byzantine  pictures  and  the  russet  back- 
grounds of  Murillo  illustrate  the  fact  that  yellow  tones 
make  an  acceptable  setting  for  other  colors.  Combina- 
tions of  colors  with  white  or  gray  or  black  are  often 
pleasant,  though  the  colors  which  go  best  with  other 
colors  combine  less  well  with  grays.  Chown  writes:^ 
"Thus  it  seems  to  be  established  that  the  greater  the 
possibility  for  a  certain  color  to  please  in  combination 
with  other  colors,  the  less  likely  is  it  to  please  in  combin- 
ation with  gray.''  Tests  have  been  made  by  Barber  on 
combinations  of  colors  with  tints  and  shades.  He  finds 
that  the  colors  at  the  violet  end  of  the  spectrum  har- 
monize well  with  their  own  tints,  but  that  tints  of  the 
warm  colors,  excepting  yellow,  harmonize  best  with  other 
colors.  The  colors  which  agree  best  with  their  own 
shades  are  orange  and  yellow.  The  most  agreeabk 
combinations,  according  to  Kirschman's  formula,  are 
those  which  exhibit  three  kinds  of  contrast  effect,  namely, 
contrast  of  hue,  of  brightness  and  of  saturation. 

The  actual  practice  of  painters  shows  two  general 
schemes  of  procedure  in  combining  colors.  According 
to  one  plan  there  should  be  one  prevailing  hue,  and 
variation  should  be  introduced  by  changes  in  saturation 
and  brightness,  and  by  limited  changes  in  hue.  A  picture 
in  which  blue  prevailed  would  contain  lig.ht  blues  and 
dark  blues,  saturated  blues  and  unsaturated,  green-blues 
and  red-blues.  There  might  be  touches  of  contrasted 
color,  but  not  enough  to  interfere  with  the  impression 
of  a  single  governing  hue.  This  is  the  "  dominant  '' 
method.  The  other  method,  called  the  contrasted, 
1  Toronto  Studies,  II. 


152  COLOR 

would  show,  perhaps,  two  key-colors,  whose  tints  and 
shades  would  weave  together;  or,  according  to  some,  a 
contrasted  scheme  must  represent  the  three  colors,  red, 
blue  and  yellow.  It  would  be  impossible  to  say  that  one 
of  these  methods  is  right  and  the  other  wrong,  since  both 
are  beautiful,  though  they  are  suited  to  different  pur- 
poses. The  dominant  style  is  more  uniform  in  tone 
and  more  gradual  in  its  transitions;  hence  rather  more 
subdued,  whereas  the  contrasted  is  more  brilliant  and 
vivacious. 

Color  Blending.  One  way  of  mixing  two  colors  to  get 
an  intermediate  tone  is  to  stir  the  two  together  be- 
fore putting  them  on  the  canvas;  another  way  is  to 
paint  one  directly  over  the  other.  Still  another  way  is  to 
put  the  two  colors  on  separately,  so  that  tiny  spots  of  one 
are  all  interlaced  with  tiny  spots  of  the  other.  If  black 
and  white  are  the  colors  to  be  so  treated,  they  will  make 
the  canvas  look,  at  close  range,  like  a  patchwork  of  little 
black  and  white  daubs.  At  a  very  far  range  the  surface 
will  look  a  pure,  even  gray.  But  at  a  proper  distance 
between  too  far  and  too  near,  the  black  and  white  will 
give  a  gray  uncommonly  clear,  transparent  and  glim- 
mering. If  red  and  blue  dots  are  arranged  in  the  same 
way,  the  result  will  be  a  purple  of  unusual  vividness.  A 
more  brilliant  and  transparent  color  effect  can  be  ob- 
tained by  this  impressionistic  method  of  blending  than 
by  the  ordinary  direct  mixture  of  pigments  on  a  palette. 
The  blending,  of  course,  takes  place  on  the  retina;  we 
know  that  it  is  impossible  for  the  eye  to  be  kept  steadily 
in  one  position,  and  at  the  slightest  shift,  when  one  is 
looking  at  a  surface  of  closely  alternating  colors,  the  point 


COLOR    BALANCE  I  53 

on  the  retina  which  was  being  stimulated  by  one  color 
will  be  in  position  to  get  the  other.  Retinal  blending 
is  easiest  when  the  eye  is  slightly  out  of  focus  for  the 
colored  surface,  since  in  this  case  the  images  of  the 
separate  dots  overlap  on  the  retina.  In  stained 
glass  this  retinal  blending  gives  particularly  beauti- 
ful effects;  patches  of  red  and  yellow  produce  a 
glowing  orange,  and  pieces  of  red  and  blue  a  shimmer 
of  purple,  elusive  beauties  which  disappear  as  we  come 
nearer. 

Color  Balance.  When  two  masses  of  color  exactly 
alike  in  every  way — hue,  brightness,  saturation,  size, 
shape  —  occupy  symmetrical  positions  on  either  side 
of  a  picture  or  design  they  are  said  to  balance.  In 
this  figurative  conception  of  balance  the  center  of  the 
picture  is  regarded  as  a  fulcrum,  and  the  horizontal 
distances  out  from  the  center  are  the  two  arms  of  the 
lever.  We  know  that,  in  maintaining  a  literal  physical 
balance,  if  we  shorten  the  arm  of  a  lever  on  one  side  we 
must  increase  the  weight  on  that  side,  but  that  if  we 
lengthen  the  arm  we  must  diminish  the  weight.  The 
same  thing  is  true  of  the  apparent  balance  between  color 
masses.  A  small  patch  of  color  far  out  from  the  center 
balances  a  large  mass  close  up  to  the  center.  A  more 
complex  problem  presents  itself  when  the  two  opposed 
colors  are  no  longer  of  the  same  quality;  when,  for 
instance,  blue  must  be  balanced  with  orange,  or  yellow 
with  green.  Experiments  show  that  (on  a  dark  back- 
ground) a  small  mass  of  bright  color  seems  to  balance  a 
large  mass  of  dull  color.'     If,  then,  we  had  a  bright  and 

'  Pierce  and  Puffer. 


154  COLOR 

a  dark  mass  of  equal  size,  the  bright  mass  should  be  put 
on  the  shorter  lever  arm,  that  is,  nearer  the  center  of  the 
picture,  since  its  extra  weight  must  be  offset  by  short 
leverage.  The  greater  "weight"  of  bright  colors  may  be 
explained  in  part  by  the  fact  that  we  tend  to  overestimate 
the  size  of  surfaces  colored  in  bright  reds  and  yellows, 
but  to  underestimate  surfaces  colored  in  greens  and  blues. 
This  would  not,  however,  explain  the  "weight"  of  dark 
masses  on  a  light  background,  and  in  any  case  the  over- 
estimation  of  bright  masses  is  not  enough  to  account 
fully  for  their  weight.  On  a  light  background,  as  we 
have  just  intimated,  the  more  a  color  approaches  black 
the  greater  its  weight  or  value,  although,  so  far  as  the 
writer  knows,  exact  experiments  have  not  been  made 
with  light  backgrounds. 

Values.  This  is  the  artist's  term  for  relationships  of 
light  and  dark.  In  black  and  white  work,  i.e.,  with 
pen  and  ink,  charcoal,  etc.,  where  black  strokes  are  put 
on  a  white  ground,  the  highest  value  is  said  to  be  the 
strongest  black.  In  pigments  the  use  is  reversed,  and 
that  tone  is  said  to  have  most  value  which  has  most  white 
in  it,  that  is,  value  would  here  be  the  same  as  brightness. 
This  is  the  usage  of  the  term  as  given  by  Professor  Van 
Dyke,  but  according  to  this  the  highest  value  would  not 
always  be  the  same  as  the  tone  of  strongest  contrast  or 
interest;  for,  if  a  painting  were  all  keyed  in  a  pale  color, 
the  high  lights  would  not  be  so  striking  as  some  touch  of 
strong  black  might  be. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  science  recognizes  three 
variations  of  color,  apart  from  shape  and  size  —  hue, 
brightness  and  saturation.     Artists  use  the  term  "tone" 


COLOR    BALANCE  155 

to  mean  either  hue  or  brightness;  thus  Batchelder  defines 
it:*  "Tone  means  the  value  (as  dark,  Hght);  or  the  color 
(as  red,  green,  blue)."  Writers  on  art  do  not  commonly 
use  the  term  "saturation,"  nor  are  they  always  careful 
to  distinguish  the  fact  from  the  fact  of  brightness  or 
value. 

Qualitative  Balance  of  Colors.  In  speaking  above 
of  balance  of  color,  we  made  use  of  the  conception  of 
a  physical  balance  of  masses;  one  quantity  was  weighed 
against  another.  It  is  true  that  the  quality  of  the  colors 
was  considered,  but  their  effect  was  translated  into  the 
quantitative  conception  of  weight.  The  term  "balance" 
is  also  used  in  a  more  strictly  qualitative  sense.  Ross 
says  of  tone:^  "Tones,  simply  as  tones,  disregarding 
the  positions,  measures,  and  shapes  which  may  be  given 
to  them,  balance,  when  the  contrasts  which  they  make 
with  the  ground-tone  upon  which  they  are  placed  are 
equal."  When  a  composition  contains  three  or  more 
hues  (or  brightnesses,  or  saturations),  then  a  balance 
becomes  possible.  In  a  design  of  white,  gray  and  black 
the  brightnesses  balance  when  the  gray  is  as  much  darker 
than  the  white  as  the  black  is  darker  than  the  gray.  The 
hues  of  yellow,  greenish-yellow  and  orange-yellow  would 
balance  if  the  greenish-  and  the  orange-yellows  were 
removed  by  equal  degrees  from  pure  yellow.  It  is 
proper  also  to  speak  of  a  balance  of  saturations  when 
two  tones  vary  by  equal  degrees  of  saturation  from  a 
ground  tone. 

Advancing  and  Retreating  Arrangements.  Colors 
are  capable  of  suggesting,   in   some   arrangements,   the 

'  "  The  Principles  of    Design."      '  "  A  Theory  of   Pure    Design." 


156  COLOR 

third  dimension  in  space.  Fig.  13  represents  at  the  left 
an  advancing,  and  at  the  right  a  retreating  arrangement 
of  colors.  With  the  brightest  color  in  the  center  we  have 
a  cone  with  its  top  standing  out  toward  the  reader; 
whereas  with  the  darkest  color  in  the  center  the  cone 
seems  to  go  backward  into  the  distance.  Ashley  performed 
tests  in  which  subjects  were  asked  to  judge  of  the  relative 
distance  of  an  object  which  they  w^re  informed  would 


Fig.  13. 

be  moved  toward  and  away  from  the  eye.  The  ex- 
perimenter was  able  to  regulate  at  will  the  amount  of 
light  thrown  upon  the  object.  He  found  that  when 
the  illumination  was  increased  the  subjects  said  that 
the  object  was  near;  when  it  was  lessened  they  said  the 
object  was  further  off;  but  in  fact  the  object  was  never 
moved  at  all.  This  shows  that  brightness  and  nearness 
are  felt  to  belong  together,  —  that  brightness  is  taken 
as  some  guarantee  of  nearness.  Painters  use  sometimes 
the  advancing,  sometimes  the  retreating  scheme  on  their 
canvases,  but  on  the  whole  it  is  more  usual  practice 
to  have  a  center  of  light  from  which  the  brightnesses 
diminish  toward  the  other  parts  of  the  picture.     In  un- 


COLOR   IN    PAINTING  1 5/ 

published  tests  by  the  writer  the  primary  colors  —  red, 
green,  blue  and  yellow  —  were  combined  in  certain 
arrangements  so  that  a  design  with  bright  masses  near 
the  center  and  dark  ones  toward  the  periphery  was 
compared  with  one  having  the  reverse  order.  On  the 
whole,  the  bright  colors  were  preferred  in  the  center.  As 
between  red  and  green,  however,  there  was  a  tendency 
to  prefer  red  in  the  center,  dthough  in  these  tests  the 
red  used  was  darker  than  the  green. 

Color  in  Design  and  in  Representative  Painting.  A 
painter  who  represents  objects,  whether  human  figures, 
still  life  or  landscape,  finds  that  his  use  of  color  is  much 
limited  by  form,  and  particularly  by  perspective  in  his 
object.  A  face  painted  all  flesh-color,  or  a  tree  all  green, 
would  be  odd  productions.  What  we  call  the  color  of 
flesh  or  of  grass  or  of  the  sky  is  really  a  typical  color 
which  we  have  abstracted  from  a  great  many  different 
views  of  faces,  or  grasses  or  skies.  The  first  time  a 
person  tries  to  paint  these  things  he  paints  them  in  these 
"generic"  colors.  He  is  seeing  in  terms  of  his  stock  of 
concepts,  not  in  terms  of  his  present  retinal  stimulation. 
What  the  artist  does  is  to  suggest  the  "right"  color  by  put- 
ting on  others  that  the  average  observer  does  not  see  at  all. 
For  "flesh-color"  the  painter  mixes  a  palette  of  reds, 
greens,  blues,  yellows,  purples  and  grays.  It  is  evident, 
therefore,  that  there  is  a  wide  discrepancy  in  representa- 
tive painting  between  the  color  which  is  put  on  the  can- 
vas and  that  which  is  suggested  to  the  observer.  The 
necessity  for  gradation  robs  the  painter  of  fullness  of 
color,     Ruskin  says:  '  "It  docs  not  matter  how  small  the 

'  "The  Elements  of  Drawinj^." 


158  COLOR 

touch  of  color  may  be,  though  not  larger  than  the  smallest 
pin's  head,  if  one  part  of  it  is  not  darker  than  the  rest,  it 
is  a  bad  touch." 

The  case  of  the  decorative  designer  is  quite  different; 
he  is  not  representing  color,  but  is  presenting  it.  As 
Rood  says:  ^  "An  ornamented  surface  is  essentially  not  a 
representation  of  a  beautiful  absent  object,  but  is  the 
beautiful  object  itself."  It  is  very  proper  for  the  deco- 
rator to  use  all  the  pure  color  he  wants  to.  He  may,  if 
he  pleases,  use  flat  ungraded  washes;  he  need  not  attend 
to  perspective,  and  he  may  distort  and  conventionalize 
his  forms  almost  without  limit,  provided  his  ultimate 
purpose  is  fulfilled,  of  making  an  intrinsically  beautiful 
arrangement  of  colors.  Red  forget-me-nots  and  blue 
roses  are  proper  if,  in  the  artist's  design,  they  are  needed. 
Design,  then,  is  the  field  in  which  color  for  its  own  sake 
finds  freest  recognition,  while  in  representative  painting 
the  colors  used  are  sometimes  little  more  than  symbols 
of  the  colors  which  are  meant. 

Reading  References 

Chevreul:  "The  Principles  of  Harmony  and  Contrast  of 
Colors  " 

Rood:  "Text-book  of  Color." 

Allen:  "The  Color  Sense." 

Cohn:  "  Experimentelle  Untersuchungen  iiber  die  Gefuhlsbeto- 
nung  d.  Farben."     Phil.  Stud.  x. 

Kirschmann:  "Psychologisch-uithetische  Bedeutung  des  Licht- 
und-Farbencontrastes."     Phil.  Stud.  vii. 

Pierce     "  Esthetics  of  Simple  Forms."     Psy.  Rev.  i. 

Baker-  "  Experiments  on  the  Esthetics  of  Light  and  Color," 
Toronto  Studies,  i 

'  "  Text-book  of  Color." 


COLOR  159 

Chown:    "  Experiments  on   ihe   Esthetics  of  Light  and  Color," 
Toronto  Studies,  i. 

Barber:  "  Combinations  of  Colors  with  Tints  and  with  Shades," 
Toronto  Studies,  11. 

Puffer:  "  Studies  in  Symmetry,"  Harvard  Studies,  i. 
"  Psy.  of  Beauty,"  ch.  iv. 

Van  Dyke:  "Art  for  Art's  Sake,"  Lectures  2  and  3. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE    CHARACTER     OF    SIMPLE    LINES    AND 
FORMS 

Mathematically  a  line  has  no  substance  or  quality, 
only  length  and  direction;  but  for  artistic  purposes  it  may 
have  a  more  substantial  status,  and  its  quality  becomes 
an  important  branch  of  study.  In  sketching,  the  quality 
of  a  line  —  as  broad  or  narrow,  dark  or  light,  rough  or 
smooth — maybe  made  to  indicate  the  texture  of  the  object 
portrayed.  A  fine  gray  line  gives  delicacy  of  texture, 
a  fine  black  line,  precision  and  hardness.  Broad  rough 
lines  may  denote  homehness  and  solidity;  they  are  appro- 
priate, for  example,  in  genre  sketches  where  the  coarse 
dress  and  wooden  shoes  of  peasants,  or  where  a  thatched 
cottage  or  barnyard  fence  appears.  Broad  black  lines 
have  a  character  of  distinctness  and  independence,  etc. 

Of  greater  importance  than  the  quality  of  line  is  the 
direction  of  line  and  its  character,  as  straight  or  curved. 
The  principal  point  to  be  brought  out  in  the  following 
paragraphs  is  that  even  the  most  simple  abstract  line, 
no  matter  how  free  it  appears  from  the  representation 
of  any  specific  thing,  may  have  an  emotional  effect  and 
meaning  of  its  own. 

Vertical  Lines.  "  Straightness"  and  "uprightness"  have 
come  to  be  synonyms  for  moral  reliability.  The  explana- 
tion of  this  fact,  and  of  the  feeling  tone  which  is  aroused 
by  vertical  lines,  depends  in  part  upon  ideational   asso- 

i6o 


CHARACTER    OF   LINES  l6l 

ciations,  and  in  part  upon  the  motor  reactions  which 
the  view  of  such  lines  directly  stimulates.  Among  the 
ideational  elements  connected  with  upright  lines  are  the 
images  of  towers  and  pillars.  The  tower  was  formerly 
a  stronghold  and  position  of  advantage  in  time  of  war, 
and  the  pillar  was  the  most  obvious  feature  of  support 
in  architectural  construction;  hence  the  tower  and  pillar 
came  to  be  symbols  or  metaphors  for  strength  and  trust- 
worthiness. Again  there  is  a  conventional  connection 
between  the  erect  attitude  of  the  human  hgure  and  the 
consciousness  of  courage  and  worth.  Sometimes  the 
association  of  vertical  lines  with  the  human  form  suggests 
the  attenuated  frame  of  the  ascetic,  or  else  the  tense 
containment  of  the  athlete  drawn  up  for  action.  Another 
important  association  with  the  vertical  is  found  in  reli- 
gious worship;  for  here  there  ii  nearly  always  a  spatial 
relationship  implied  between  the  god  and  the  worsliipcr. 
The  gods  are  usually  thought  of  as  dwelling  above,  and 
the  worshiper  literally  "looks  up"  to  them.  Thus  the 
mood  of  reverence  and  of  spiritual  "exaltation"  is  con- 
nected with  an  upward  hne.^  These  reflections  suggest 
a  few  of  the  associations  which  go  to  determine  our 
feeling  for  the  vertical.  As  for  the  direct  motor  response 
to  a  vertical  line,  it  consists  in  the  movement  of  the  eyes 
up  and  down  and  in  the  imitative  tendency  of  the 
w^hole  body  by  which  we  perform  incipiently  the 
act  of  drawing  ourselves  up  into  a  tall  narrow  form. 
This  is  normally  an  attitude  of  attention,  but,  though 
rigorous,  it  is  neither  unbalanced  nor  awkward.  The 
feeling  of   this  bodily  attitude  determines,  or  rather  is, 

'  Cf.  a  quotation  from  Puffer  on  p.  i66. 


1 62  SIMPLE   LINES   AND   FORMS 

our  feeling  for  the  line  itself.  In  a  later  paragraph  we 
shall  mention  some  of  the  theories  which  are  based  on 
experiences  like  this. 

There  is  a  severe  controlled  grace  in  certain  upright 
lines,  which  to  some  tastes  may  be  more  pleasing  than  the 
grace  of  curves.  It  is  true  that  the  lavish  use  of  verticals 
would  give  stiffness  to  an  artist's  style,  but  their  judicious 
employment  gives  firmness,  simplicity  and  life.  In  archi- 
tecture the  great  verticals  of  Giotto's  tower  come  to  mind. 
Among  statues  the  one  of  "Teucer"  drawing  his  bow  is 
one  of  the  most  rigorously  vertical.  In  painting  Bocklin 
has  given  great  dignity  and  distinction  to  his  "  Toteninsel" 
by  the  use  of  the  long  vertical  lines.  Burne- Jones  often 
gets  from  verticals  an  architectural  effect  and  an  ascetic 
tone  in  his  pictures. 

Horizontal  Lines.  The  horizontal  is  the  line  of 
quiescence  and  repose,  the  suggestion  of  lying  down,  and 
the  consequent  suggestion  of  quiet  and  of  relaxation  being 
particularly  strong.  The  horizon  of  the  sea  and  of  the 
plains  brings  always  the  thought  of  distance.  Long 
stretches  of  level  ground  bring  to  us,  in  some  moods,  a 
sense  of  the  patience  and  lowliness  of  the  earth.  This 
last  is  a  case  of  pathetic  fallacy,  but  pathetic  fallacy  may 
help  us  to  know  our  own  emotions  in  the  presence  of  the 
phenomena  of  nature.  There  is,  in  addition  to  these 
ideational  elements,  something  hypnotic  in  a  long  monot- 
ony of  level  line.  There  is  nothing  in  it  to  lead  the  eye 
upward  or  down,  nothing  to  vary  what  seems  the  easiest 
of  all  eye-movements,  the  sliding  from  side  to  side.  The 
spell  of  such  lines  is  powerfully  illustrated  in  some  of 
Burne- Jones's  pictures.     In  the  "  Sleeping  Beauty"  series 


CHARACTER   OF   LINES 


163 


there  are  long  horizontals  in  the  pavement  of  the  fore- 
ground, the  hangings  of  the  background,  in  the  princess's 
couch  and  the  king's  dais;  then,  too,  the  reclining  figures, 
though  their  lines  are  varied  to  make  rhythmic  undula- 
tions across  the  picture  (the  series  was  designed  to  be  a 
frieze)  all  form  a  broad  horizontal  sweep,  and  the  effect 
of  magic  slumber  is  complete.  In  his  picture  called 
"The  Wine  of  Circe,"  there  is  also  a  striking  predomin- 
ance of  the  horizontal.  The  outline  of  the  whole  picture 
is  a  low  oblong.  The  posture  of  the  tall  Circe  bent  low 
and  reaching  out  her  arm,  and  the  backs  of  the  animals, 
the  lines  of  the  long  table,  and  the  low  casement  through 
which  is  visible  the  sea-horizon,  all  these  contribute  to  the 
sense  of  irresistible  languor  and  drowsy  enchantment. 

Diagonal  Lines.  Diagonals  are  the  lines  of  action;  for 
attention  cannot  rest  upon  them,  but  sweeps  down  and  up. 
We  know  that  many  kinds  of  hard  labor  throw  the  body 
into  oblique  lines  —  such  work  as  running,  rowing, 
chopping  wood,  dragging  a  weight  will  do  it, —  and 
these  memories  are  dimly  present  as  we  look  at  a  diagonal 


Fig.  14. 


line.  Then,  too,  such  a  line  appears  unstable  in  itself,  or 
rather  we  tend  to  lose  balance  if  we  try  very  vigorously 
to  imitate  the  line.  The  oblique  thus  lacks  the  security 
of  the  horizontal,  or  even  of  the  vertical,  and  it  resembles 


164 


SIMPLE   LINES   AND    FORMS 


Fig.  15. 


the  arm  of  a  balance  when  the  weights  are  unequal. 
In  Fig.  14  we  feel  that  the  square  resting  on  its  side  is 
solid  and  passive  as  compared  with 
the  triangle  which  suggests  activity 
or  motion.  The  diagonal  by  itself 
is  too  precarious  in  its  position  to 
be  fully  satisfactory.  In  a  work  of 
art  the  active  character  of  the  dia- 
gonal may  be  preserved  and  its 
want  of  balance  compensated  by 
other  factors.  In  the  figure  (Fig. 
15)  of  the  "  Borghese  Warrior" 
the  striking  obhque  is  rendered  firm  by  the  compensating 
position  of  the  right  leg  and  right  arm. 

In  figure  painting  it  is  a  common  practice  to  get  motion 
by  representing  a  person  stepping  forward  in  an  oblique 
pose,  and  with  a  backward 
slant  of  fluttering  drapery. 
It  is  also  possible  to  indi- 
cate motion  without  assum- 
ing the  figure  to  be  actually 
moving.  One  good  exam- 
ple is  the  frieze  in  the 
Pittsburg  museum,  where 
Alexander  has  depicted  a 
number  of  work  episodes. 
Much  of  the  sense  of  action  in  these  pictures  comes 
from  the  long  slant  lines  of  steel  beams,  and  of  shafts 
of  light  from  the  fires.  Another  example  is  Rodin's 
"Flight  of  Love"  (Fig.  16).  In  this,  although  the 
woman  is  sitting,  and  in  thought,  the  springing  diagonal 


Fig.  16. 


CHARACTER    OF   LINES 


165 


lines  give  wonderfully  the  feeling  of  departure.  Puffer, 
in  an  interesting  study  of  old  masters,  points  out  that 
oblique  lines  are  used,  a  "V-shaped"  type  of  compo- 
sition, to  give  animation  to  pictures  which  without  this 
would  be  too  repressed  and  still. 

Having  said  something  of  the  character  of  the  three 
chief  types  of  straight  hnes,  we  shall  be  occupied  in  the 
next  few  paragraphs  with  some  of  the  simplest  forms, 
or  combinations  of  straight  lines. 

The  Stripe.  A  pattern  composed  merely  of  stripes 
or  bars  running  all  in  one  direction  is  one  of  the  simplest 
as  well  as  one  of  the  strongest  forms  of  composition. 
Ruskin  thinks  it  appropriate  as  a  color  arrangement; 
for  he  bch'cves  that  the  full  glory  of  color  comes  out  only 
when  we  have  it  in  simple  masses,  "zones,  cloudings  and 
flamings."  In  some  churches  of  Spain  and  Italy  the 
outside   surface  is   sometimes   broken    into    alternating 


III  III 


Fig.  17. 

layers,  or  horizontal  bars  of  black  and  white,  or  pink  and 
white  as  in  Florence.  Color  composition  by  bars  is 
available  not  only  in  architecture,  but  in  painting  as  well. 
A  general  color  scheme  need  not  be  determined  by  the 
grouping  of  the  figures  portrayed,  but  may  fall  into  bars, 
circles,  or  what  not,  as  the  artist  chooses.  Whistler's 
painting  of  a  ship^  is  an  illustration  of  arrangement  in 

'  Reproduced  in  color  in  Menpes:  "Whistler  as  I  knew  Him." 


1 66  SIMPLE   LINES   AND   FORMS 

horizontal  bands,  in  this  case  an  ahernation  of  black  and 
yellow.  Great  variety  may  be  introduced  into  the  char- 
acter of  striped  patterns  by  changing  the  width  and 
clustering  of  the  lines.  Fig.  17  shows  three  of  the  many 
possibilities.  y; 

Triangle,  Pyramid,  and  Vista.  The  triangle  is  the 
simplest  of  all  enclosed  forms.  Its  diagonal  lines  and 
sharp  corners  give  it  an  active,  vivacious  and  incisive 
character.  Fig.  18  shows  a  use  of  repeated 
triangles,  often  seen  in  rugs,  where  they 
give  spirit  to  the  surface  which  they  cover. 
An  isosceles  triangle  resting  on  its  base 
represents  a  symmetrical  balance  of  active 
Fig  18  lines.     The  sides  converging  to  the  apex 

draw  our  attention  in  that  direction  and 
give  us  a  feeling  of  unified  activity.  The  use  of  triangular 
form  in  art  is  exemplified  first  of  all  in  architecture, 
notably  in  pyramids  and  the  pediments  of  temples.  In 
painting  and  design  it  is  recognized  as  a  principle  of  unity. 
The  vista  in  landscape,  as  Puffer  says,  serves  to  concen- 
trate attention  and  to  hold  together  those  parts  of  the 
picture  which  are  associated  in  the  vista.  Her  discussion 
brings  out  also  that  in  religious  pictures,  particularly  altar- 
pieces  representing  the  Madonna  enthroned,  the  com- 
position approaches  a  pyramid  or  triangle  in  form,  the 
Madonna's  head  being  often  at  the  apex  of  the  pyramid.^ 
"  The  contrast,"  she  writes,  "  between  the  broad  base  and 
the  apex  gives  a  feeling  of  solidity,  of  repose;  and  it  seems 
not  unreasonable  to  suppose  that  the  tendency  to  rest  the 
eyes  above  the  center  of  the  picture  directly  induces  the 

"  Psychology  of  Beauty,"  ch.  4. 


CHARACTER    OF   SIMPLE   FORMS  1 6/ 

associated  mood  of  reverence  or  worship.  Thus  the 
pyramidal  form  serves  two  ends;  primarily  that  of  giving 
unity,  and  secondarily,  by  the  peculiarity  of  its  shape, 
that  of  inducing  the  feeling-tone  appropriate  to  the  sub- 
ject of  the  picture." 

The  Square.  A  square  resting  on  its  side  conveys  the 
impression  of  solidity  and  strength.  It  is  plain  and  sturdy. 
It  is  really  a  less  concentrated  form  than  the  circle,  or 
than  the  regular  polygons,  but  the  straightness  of  its 
lines  and  the  practical  simplicity  of  its  construction  make 
it  seem  a  more  primitive  and  rugged  thing.  The  repeat- 
ing square  or  chequer  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  commonest 
of  ornamental  forms.  It  is  probably  derived  from  textile 
operations  as  in  Fig.  19.  The  repeating  s  lua-e  13  the 
basis  of  all  plaid  designs,  and  when 
differences  in  the  color,  width,  and 
grouping  of  the  crossing  strands  are 
introduced,  it  is  capable  of  yielding 
many  attractive  variations.  Impor- 
tant figures  allied  to  the  square  are 
the  fret  or  key  pattern  usually  asso-  p^^ 

ciated  with  Greek  borders;  the  latch- 
hook,  found  frequently  in  eastern  rugs,  and  the  swastika. 
The  square  in  pictorial  composition  makes  a  less  unified 
grouping  than  the  triangle,  but  we  shall  see  that  in 
sculpture  and  in  architecture  the  square  and  the  cube 
arc  imi)ortant  forms. 

Oblongs.  Oblongs  are  familiar  as  the  outlines  of 
windows,  doors,  picture-frames,  books,  panels,  rugs,  etc., 
etc.  They  may  vary  in  proportion  all  the  way  from  the 
square  to  the  long,  thin  rectangle  which  is  almost  a  stripe 


1 68  SIMPLE   LINES    AND    FORMS 

or  mere  line.  Some  of  these  figures  strike  us  as  more 
agreeable  in  proportion  than  others,  and  it  would  be 
a  matter  of  interest  to  know  whether  any  one  is  more 
attractive  than  all  the  rest,  and  if  so  which  it  is.  This 
question  has  a  significant  place  in  the  history  of  esthetics; 
for  it  was  the  first  problem  to  receive  a  systematic  ex- 
perimental treatment.  Zeising,  in  the  middle  of  the  last 
century,  maintained  that  the  "golden  section"  was  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  proportions.  He  saw  in  it  the  most 
perfect  expression  of  unity  in  variety,  and  tried  to  apply 
it  very  widely  as  a  criterion  to  natural  and  artistic  forms. 
The  golden  section  is  such  a  division  of  a  whole  that  the 
smaller  part  is  to  the  larger  as  the  larger  part  is  to  the 
whole,  a:b::b:(a  +  b)  or  approximately  5:8.  Fechner 
made  experiments  with  sets  of  figures  in  order  to  test  the 
attractiveness  of  this  golden  ratio.  In  one  kind  of  test 
he  offered  for  comparison  ten  rectangles  of  different  pro- 
portions.    His  figures  were  cut  in  these  ratios: 

i/i;  6/s;   5/4;   4/3;   29/20;   3/2;   34/21;   23/13;   2/1;   5/2. 

These  figures  were  spread  out  in  haphazard  order  and 
the  observers  were  asked  to  select  the  best  and  the  worst 
of  them.  The  proportion  34/21,  the  golden  section, 
was  chosen  oftenest  as  best,  3/2  and  23/13  coming  next. 
The  least  agreeable  proved  to  ba  6/5.  It  should  be 
added  that  the  best  proportion  for  oblongs  did  not  prove 
to  be  the  best  for  certain  other  simple  figures  which 
Fechner  tried. 

In  concrete  works  of  art  the  golden  section  is  not 
always  the  most  agreeable  proportion  even  for  rectangles, 
since  the  effect  of  the  rectangle  is  greatly  modified  by 


CHARACTER    OF   CURVES  I 69 

attendant  figures  and  by  the  purpose  which  it  serves  in 
the  design  as  a  whole. 

Curves.  Sully,  who  speaks  of  the  horizontal  line  as 
"peaceful"  and  the  vertical  as  "ambitious,"  calls  the 
curved  line  "voluptuous."  Curves  are  in  general  felt 
to  be  more  beautiful  than  straight  lines.  They  are  more 
graceful  and  pliable,  and  avoid  the  harshness  of  some 
straight  lines.  An  undulating  horizontal  has  less  of 
repression  than  the  perfectly  level  line,  and  an  upward 
sweep  that  is  slightly  curved  is  less  severe  and  stiff 
than  the  literal  perpendicular.  Out  of  the  multitude  of 
pleasing  curves  only  a  few  striking  ones  can  be  discussed 
here. 

Circle  and  Arc.  The  circle  is  a  symbol  of  completeness, 
and  it  makes  the  impression  of  fullness  and  finality.  For 
this  reason  it  is  not  easy  to  manage  as  an  clement  in  an 
artistic  composition.  Ruskin  thinks  it  the  least  beautiful 
of  curves.  Curves  which  lead  on  and  weave  into  some- 
thing else  are  more  available  than  a  curve  which  only 
returns  on  itself.  In  Burne- Jones's  "  Days  of  Creation  " 
the  circle  of  the  world,  in  almost  perfect  outline,  occupies 
the  center  of  attention  in  the  design,  but  not  with  particu- 
larly good  effect.  This  unbroken  curve  is  too  exclusive, 
and  will  not  yield  anything  to  other  lines.  But  though 
the  perfect  circle  is  not  very  manageable  in  the  midst  of  a 
design,  it  makes  a  favorable  boundary  or  governing  line. 
Botticelli  regarded  the  tondo  as  the  perfect  form  for  a 
picture,  and  in  some  of  his  work  the  circle  thoroughly 
modifies  the  composition.  The  "circular"  tyi)e  of  pic- 
torial composition  is  one  in  which  the  grouping,  as  a 
whole,  roughly  approximates  a  circle  (and  so  gains  in 


I/O  SIMPLE   LINES    AND    FORMS 

unity),  but  the  actual  lines  of  the  figures  are  far  from 
being  literally  circular. 

The  arc  or  crescent  line  hints  of  the  completeness,  but 
not  of  the  hard,  firm  perfectness  of  the  circle.  In  archi- 
tecture the  arched  line  is  oftenest  used  as  the  upper  limit 
of  vision.  The  arch  makes  an  agreeable  finish  for  the 
space  enclosed  in  the  interior  of  a  building,  while  from 
the  outside,  the  arching  line  of  a  dome  seems  to  complete 
the  structure  in  a  satisfying  way.  The  pointed  arch  par- 
takes of  the  effect  of  the  round  arch  and  of  the  triangle, 
having  something  of  the  fullness  and  finish  of  the  round 
arch,  but  yet  pointing  upward  and  suggesting  religious 
aspiration.  It  is  one  of  the  characteristic  beauties  of 
Gothic  art. 

Important  forms  allied  to  the  circle  are  spiral  and 
radiating  figrrcs.  Of  these  the  spiral  shows  greater 
concentration,  but  the  radiating  form  greater  freedom. 
Crane  says:^  "If  there  can  be  said  to  be  one  principle 
more  than  another,  the  perception  and  expression  of 
which  gives  to  an  artist's  work  in  design  peculiar  vitality, 
it  is  this  principle  of  radiating  line." 

The  Serpentine  Line.  Hogarth  said  that  the  most 
perfect  "line  of  grace"  was  the  serpentine  or  wavy  line, 
something  like  a  letter  S.  The  variety  of  direction,  he 
justly  thought,  was  an  element  of  importance  in  its  beauty. 
Attempts  have  been  made  to  explain  our  liking  for  this 
type  of  line,  to  show  why  a  curve  like  Fig.  20  a  is  more 
agreeable  than  20  b.  The  explanation  formerly  accepted 
was  this;  that  the  eye  in  following  the  first  line  must 
travel  in  a  smooth  continuous  manner,  whereas  in  follow- 

*  "  Line  and  Form." 


CHARACTER   OF   CURVES  I 71 

ing  the  second  it  would  have  to  proceed  in  jerky  install- 
ments, and  that  the  feeling  of  the  first  type  of  movement 
was  more  agreeable.  The  ease  of  eye-movement  was 
made  the  basis  of  our  pleasure.  Experiments  have  been 
made  by  Stratton,  however,  which  discredit  this  theory. 
He  recorded  on  a  photographic  plate  the  eye-movements 
of  subjects  as  they  looked  along  a  smooth  serpentine 
curve,  and  his  results  show  that  these  eye-movements  are 


a  b 

Fig.  20        (AFTER    STRATTON.) 

not  at  all  smooth  and  continuous  in  their  character;  in 
fact  they  do  not  differ  essentially  from  the  movements 
made  in  following  the  ugly  broken  line.  This  tends  to 
prove  that  the  feeling  of  eye-movement  cannot  be  the 
ground  of  the  esthetic  judgment.  It  may  also  be 
remarked  that  we  are  capable  of  observing  curves  and 
passing  judgment  on  them  without  appreciably  moving 
the  eyes  at  all.  Now,  although  we  cannot  assume  eye- 
movement  as  the  source  of  our  pleasure,  it  is  still  possible 
to  maintain  that  the  curve  suggests  smooth  and  easy 
movement  in  other  parts  of  the  body.  We  are  able  to 
move  hands,  wrists,  head  and  feet,  at  least,  in  serpentine 
lines,  and  to  experience  the  greater  ease  and  pleasure,  as 
well  as  the  greater  economy  and  power  of  these  move- 
ments. It  seems  fair  to  assume  that  the  memory  of 
these  movements,  and  perhaps  some  actual  half-conscious 
movements  like  them,  may  be  the  basis  of  our  esthetic 
appreciation  of  the  serpentine  line. 


1/2  SIMPLE   LINES    AND    FORMS 

Among  the  formal  traditional  patterns  which  show 
the  wavy  line  are  the  "river-loop"  or  "pear"  pattern 
common  in  Persian  carpets,  the  ogee  arch,  the  conven- 
tional wave,  the  flame,  the  guilloche,  the  Greek  vase 
(Fig.  2i). 

Connection  with  General  Theory.  In  the  preceding 
pages  the  student  will  have  noticed  the  frequent  refer- 
ence to  the  movements  which  an  observer  makes  while 
attending  to  visual  objects.  In  looking  at  these  objects 
we  tend  to  throw  ourselves  into   attitudes  or  gestures 


wave  guilloche 

Fig.  21. 

which  in  a  sense  imitate  or  reproduce  the  objects.  This 
tendency  has  been  called  "sympathetic  reproduction"  or 
"inner  imitation"  by  Groos,  a  "feeling  oneself  into"  the 
object  by  Lipps,  and  has  been  assumed  as  the  basis 
of  our  esthetic  appreciation  of  the  object.  We  have 
mentioned  above  only  the  movements  by  which  one 
responds  to  the  simplest  lines,  but  in  order  to  appreciate 
the  justice  of  the  theory  we  should  have  in  mind  some 
account  of  the  attitude  assumed  towards  a  more  complex 
visual  object.     An   excellent   example   is   the   following 


LEE  AND  THOMPSON  QUOTED        1 73 

introspective  record  by  Lee  and  Thompson*  on  observing 
a  symmetrical  jar. 

"Looking  at  this  jar  one  has  a  specific  sense  of  a 
whole.  One's  bodily  sensations  are  extraordinarily  com- 
posed, balanced,  co-related  in  their  diversity.  To  begin 
with,  the  feet  press  on  the  ground  while  the  eyes  fix  the 
base  of  the  jar.  Then  one  accompanies  the  lift  up, 
so  to  speak,  of  the  body  of  the  jar  by  a  lift  up  of  one's  own 
body;  and  one  accompanies  by  a  slight  sense  of  down- 
ward pressure  of  the  head  the  downward  pressure  of  the 
widened  rim  on  the  jar's  top.  Meanwhile  the  jar's  equal 
sides  bring  both  lungs  into  equal  play;  the  curve  out- 
wards of  the  jar's  two  sides  is  simultaneously  followed  by 
an  inspiration  as  the  eyes  move  up  to  the  jar's  widest 
point.  Then  expiration  begins,  and  the  lungs  seem  slowly 
to  collapse  as  the  curve  inward  is  followed  by  the  eyes, 
till,  the  narrow  part  of  the  neck  being  reached,  the  ocular 
following  of  the  widened  out  top  provokes  a  short  inspira- 
tion. Moreover,  the  shape  of  the  jar  provokes  move- 
ments of  balance,  the  left  curve  a  shifting  on  to  the  left 
foot,  and  vice  versa.  A  complete  and  equally  distributed 
set  of  bodily  adjustments  has  accompanied  the  ocular 
sight  of  the  jar;  this  totality  of  movements  and  harmony 
of  movements  in  ourselves  answers  to  the  intellectual 
fact  of  finding  that  the  jar  is  a  harmonious  whole.^^ 

This  account  is  strictly  in  accord  with  the  James 
theory  of  emotion,  since  there  is  first  the  sensory  stimulus, 
then  the  instinctive  bodily  reaction,  the  "feel"  of  this 
reaction  being  the  esthetic  "feel"  for  the  object.  It 
illustrates  also  the  point  in   Dewey's  theory  that  there 

1  Op.  cit. 


174  SIMPLE    LINES    AND    FORMS 

must  be  conflict  or  diversity  of  impulses;  for  the  two 
sides  of  the  balance  stimulate  movements  in  contrary 
directions,  and  without  these  elements  of  diversity,  we 
could  have  nothing  approaching  emotional  excitement. 

In  addition  to  such  introspective  studies  as  that  just 
quoted,  it  would  be  a  matter  of  the  greatest  interest  to 
have  records  of  these  physiological  reactions  taken  under 
laboratory  conditions.  Photographing  eye-movements  is 
an  important  means  which  might  be  extended  to  a  com- 
parative study  of  the  movements  involved  in  watching  or 
thinking  of  different  figures,  though  the  results  thus  far 
have  been  rather  negative.  Involuntary  movements  of 
various  parts  of  the  body,  and  of  the  body  as  a  whole, 
are  capable  of  record,  and  should  throw  light  on  the 
problem.  Jastrow  has  made  many  studies  of  involun- 
tary movements,  and  his  results  show  that  a  person  who 
thinks  of  a  given  object,  whether  the  object  is  present 
to  sense  or  is  only  imagined,  makes  movements  in  the 
direction,  or  the  imagined  direction,  of  the  object.  Even 
while  trying  to  remain  perfectly  still  the  subject  will  move 
his  hand,  head  or  whole  body  in  the  direction  of  the  thing 
which  holds  his  attention.  Jastrow  writes  of  one  test:^ 
"  As  the  metronome,  the  strokes  of  which  the  subject  was 
counting,  was  carried  from  one  corner  of  the  room  to 
another  and  so  on  around  the  room,  the  hand  involun- 
tarily followed  it  and  recorded  an  almost  perfect  square." 
One  would  expect  from  this  to  find  characteristic  in- 
voluntary movements,  perhaps  unconscious  movements, 
accompanying  verticals,  horizontals,  spirals,  etc.  In 
addition  to  such  studies  of  movement  one  could  investi- 

^    "  Fact  and  Fable  in  Psychology." 


SIMPLE    LINES    AND    FORMS  I75 

gate  the  different  types  and  rates  of  breathing  and  of 
heart-beat  which  possibly  accompany  the  contemplation 
of  different  lines  and  figures. 

Reading   References. 

Fechner:   "Vorschule  d.  i^slhetik." 

Witmer:  "Zur  Experimentellen  ^sthetik  einfacher  raumlicher 
Verhaltnisse."    Phil.  Stud.  ix. 

Lee  and  Thompson:  "Beauty  and  Ugliness."  Contemp.  Rev. 
1897. 

Sully:  "Les  formes  visuelles  et  le  plaisir  esthetique."  Revue 
Philosophique  ix. 

Crane:   "The  Bases  of  Design  ";    "Line  and  Form." 

Jastrow:  "Fact  and  Fable  in  Psychology."  Study  of  Inv^olun- 
tary  Movements. 

Stratton:  "  Eye-Movements  and  the  Esthetics  of  Visual  Form." 
Phil.  Stud.  XX. 

Puffer:   Op.  cit.,  ch.  iv. 


t\*^ 


CHAPTER    X 
SOME    PRINCIPLES    OF    DESIGN 

Definition.  "By  Design,"  says  Ross/  "I  mean  Order 
in  human  feeling  and  thought  and  in  the  many  and  varied 
activities  by  which  that  feehng  or  that  thought  is 
expressed."  Batchelder  adds:'  "Good  designs  are  in- 
variably sane,  regular,  orderly,  consistent  throughout." 
A  design,  we  may  say,  in  any  field  of  art  is  the  expression 
of  purpose;  it  is  material  modified  to  suit  an  idea.  There 
is  always  present  in  such  a  work  of  art  some  trace  of 
humanly  imposed  order  or  law.  Creative  imagination, 
as  we  know,  consists  in  seeing  connections  and  emphasiz- 
ing likenesses  between  different  things.  So  in  design 
we  have  something — our  material — which  we  make  into 
the  likeness  of  something  else  —  our  idea.  If  we  take 
three  flowers,  and  do  no  more  than  set  them  in  order  to 
suit  our  idea  of  a  triangle,  we  have  made  a  design. 

What  decorative  design  means  is  most  easily  under- 
stood by  seeing  it  contrasted  with  realistic  portrayal  on 
the  one  hand,  and  grotesque  exaggeration  on  the  other. 
The  materials  for  design  in  arts  appealing  to  the  eye 
are  derived  ultimately  from  the  visible  creation,  from 
human,  animal  and  vegetable  forms,  and  inanimate 
formations.  If,  in  dealing  with  this  material,  the  artist 
faithfully  copies  off  some  of  it,  with  the  minimum  of  mod- 

'  "  A  Theory  of  Pure  Design." 

2  "  The  PriHciples  of  Design." 

176 


DECORATIVE    DESIGN 


177 


ifying  idea  in  his  mind,  wc  call  his  product  realistic. 
If,  however,  the  artist  orders  or  harmonizes  his  material 
with  some  idea,  if  he  poses  his  material  in  some  suitable 
but  special  manner,  we  call  his  product  a  decorative 
treatment.  If,  linally,  the  artist  becomes  despotic  and 
excessive  in  imposing  his  idea  ui)on  the  material,  if  his 


Fig.  22. 

idea  appears  to  do  violence  to  the  natural  form,  we  call 

his  product  fantastic  or  grotcsciue.     Any  of  these  three 

methods  of  handling  material  may 

produce   beautiful    results,    or    they 

may   produce   ugly  results,  but  the 

chances  of  producing  beauty  are,  on 

the    whole,    with     the     middle,    or 

decorative    way.     Realism   and   the 

grotesque   are  extremes;   one  is  the 

extreme   of    nature,   and    the    other 

the  extreme  of  human  caprice.    Figs. 


22  *   and  23  ^  illustrate  two  methods 


Fig.  23. 


of  modifying  bird  forms,  the  former 
a  legitimate  decorative  treatment,  the  latter  an  exagger- 
ated and   grotesque  treatment. 

The  Realistic  or  Graphic  Interest  is  Primary.  Accord- 
ing to  recent  writers  of  anthroj)ology,  primitive  art  was 
at  first,  or  was  at  least  intended  to  be,  realistic.     In  the 


'  From  Waller  Crane's  "Line  and  Form." 

'  From  Aubrev  Bcardslcv.     Illuslrations  for  "  Morte  d'Arthur." 


178  SOME   PRINCIPLES    OF   DESIGN 

savage  period  the  artist  was  interested  in  representing, 
for  various  purposes,  human  and  animal  forms.  Simple 
lines,  as  such,  did  not  interest  him.  Many  of  the  so- 
called  "geometrical"  designs  of  primitive  tribes  to-day 
have,  in  fact,  as  we  are  told,  a  representative  value,  or  a 
specific  meaning  for  those  tribes.  Such  abstract  or 
symbolic  representations  of  living  forms,  can,  in  some 
cases,  be  traced  as  the  result  of  a  gradual  wearing  down 
process.  This  eliminating  process  is  partly  a  labor-saving 
device,  and  partly  an  artistic  one.    Fig.  24^  illustrates  the 

a  bed 

Fig.  24.   Series  of  figures  of  alligators  showing  stages  of  simplification. 

Steps  in  one  such  process;  seeing  the  picture  only  in  its 
last  stage  of  development  one  would  scarcely  imagine  that 
it  had  a  graphic  origin.  The  taste  for  abstract  lines  and 
simple  forms  for  their  own  sake,  or  rather  for  their  imme- 
diate esthetic  effect,  is,  then,  a  later  growth  than  the  taste 
for  lines  because  of  their  representative  or  mediate  value. 
In  the  mind  of  the  oriental  the  interest  in  representa- 
tive value  still  persists  even  with  his  most  decorative  and 
conventional  work.  Concerning  the  symbolic  intention 
of  the  designer  of  oriental  carpets  Birdwood  says:  ^ 
"Whatever  their  type  of  ornamentation  may  be,  a  deep 
and  complicate  symbolism  .  .  .  pervades  every  denom- 
ination of  oriental  carpets.     Thus  the  carpet  itself  pre- 

'  Prof.  Holmes  in  6th  Annual  Report  of  the  Bureau  of   Ethnology^ 
Fig.  277.     Reproduced  in  Wilson's  "The  Swastika." 
^  Quoted  in  Mumford:  "Oriental  Rugs." 


GRAPHIC    DESIGN  1/9 

figures  space  and  eternity,  and  the  general  pattern  or 
filling,  as  it  is  technically  termed,  the  fleeting  finite  uni- 
verse of  animated  beauty.  Every  color  used  has  its 
significance,  and  the  design,  whether  mythological  or 
natural,  human,  bestial  or  floral,  has  its  hidden  meaning." 
As  distinct  from  such  an  attitude  towards  art,  the  con- 
viction of  the  modern  western  mind  is  that  the  true 
meaning  of  a  work  of  art  lies  in  its  face  value,  in  what  it 
is  able  to  do  to  the  beholder,  not  in  any  secret  dream 
or  hidden  meaning  of  the  designer.  An  interest  in  the 
graphic  or  representative  character  of  a  picture  is  some- 
thing of  a  backward  reference,  that  is,  it  harks  back 
strongly  to  that  from  which  the  picture  comes.  The 
esthetic  attitude  for  us  is  rather  an  interest  in  the  present 
sense  content,  an  interest  in  what  the  picture  now  is, 
and  also  in  what  it  is  able  to  stimulate  or  suggesj.  This 
stimulative  quality  is  a  reference  really  to  the  future. 
But   it   is   an   emotional,   not  an  intellectual,  reference. 

The  artist,  when  he  has  become  freed  from  the  purely 
graphic  purpose  in  art  finds  that  he  has  lost  something 
in  the  way  of  definite  guidance.  When  he  throws  away 
the  principle  of  literal  reproduction  he  finds  that  he  must 
adopt  other  principles  in  its  place.  A  body  of  tradition 
has  grown  up  to  be  a  guide  to  composition,  and  although 
no  one  can  guarantee  that  its  rules  will  always  j)roduce 
beauty,  it  is  not  hard  to  show  that  they  may  do  it  and 
often  have  done  it.  Some  of  the  elements  of  good  design 
are  discussed   in  the   following  paragraphs. 

Repetition.  Oftentimes  a  line  or  figure  which  is 
insignificant  in  itself  may  be  intensified,  backed  up,  or 
^'justified"    by    being    repeated.     An    instance    of    the 


l8o  SOME   PRINCIPLES    OF   DESIGN 

agreeable  effect  of  repetition  was  found  in  the  experiment 
to  be  described  on  p.  184.  The  circles  used  in  that  test 
formed  a  series  in  which  the  same  element  was  repeated, 
but  in  a  gradually  increasing  size.  Now  it  appeared  that 
when  two,  three,  or  four  circles  were  shown  in  a  row 
the  pleasure  which  the  subjects  experienced  was  pretty- 
slight,  they  saw  little  "sense"  in  the  experiment.  But 
when  there  were  nine  or  ten  shown  in  a  row  the  esthetic 
value  of  the  whole  was  materially  heightened.  Witmer 
also  found,  in  his  tests,  that  when  a  figure  belongs  to  a 
series  the  subject  no  longer  asks  for  the  meaning  of  the 
figures;  the  fact  that  it  is  the  member  of  a  series  seems 
to  be  meaning  enough.  The  psychological  explanation 
of  these  facts  is  to  be  found  in  the  law  of  habit.  What- 
ever is  habitual,  or  in  accord  with  an  established  order 
is  taken  as  a  matter  of  course;  the  familiar  has  a  feeling 
of  meaning  about  it  and  seems  to  require  no  further 
significance. 

Rowland   has   made   experiments  on   repeated   space 
forms,  using  chiefly  vertical  lines  in  various  groupings. 


Fig.  25. 


She  finds  that  in  a  repeating  series  there  is  always  a 
major  element  which  is  iterated,  forming  a  major  series, 
and  a  minor  element  which  is  repeated  and  forms  an 
ahernate  or  "filling"  for  the  major  series.  For  example, 
in    Fig.    25    the    three-stringed    repeat    constitutes    the 


REPETITION  l8l 

major  series,  and  the  one-stringed  repeat  is  the  minor 
or  alternate.  If  there  were  no  single  strings  in  this 
figure,  the  alternate  series  would  be  constituted  by  the 
spacing  between  the  other  elements.  The  experimenter 
says  that  variation  may  be  introduced  into  the  individual 
elements  of  the  major  series  without  destroying  the  effect 
of  a  repeating  series,  but  that  the  whole  experience  is 
disturbed  if  changes  are  made  in  the  elements  of  the 
alternate  series.  (We  can  readily  understand  that  in  a 
row  of  statues  it  would  be  agreeable  to  have  the  figures 
themselves  different  from  one  another,  but  not  agreeable 
to  have  the  spacing  irregular.)  A  visual  series,  this 
experimenter  reports,  is  felt  to  have  a  rhythm,  and  this 
feeling  is  immediate,  that  is,  it  does  not  depend  upon  the 
knowledge  that  certain  objects  do  recur  regularly.  The 
analogy  between  auditory  and  visual  rhythm  is  very 
strong.  (Some  writers  use  the  term  '* rhythm"  in  a  more 
limited  sense  for  visual  objects  and  would  not  admit  that 
the  series  used  by  Rowland  were  properly  rhythmical. 
We  shall  come  back  to  this  point  again.)  Relative  to  the 
pleasure  aroused  by  repetition  she  says:  ^  "The  series 
excites  a  certain  response  in  the  observer,  which,  if  it 
corresponds  with  his  rhythmic  organization,  is  pleasant, 
and  if  not,  is  otherwise.  With  a  certain  class  of  subjects 
this  rhythmic  response  is  very  noticeable,  and  they  feel 
it  as  a  conscious  part  of  the  experience.  With  others, 
the  symmetrical  j)roperties  of  the  series  are  the  more 
prominent.  .    .    ." 

Repetition  in  its  strict  form  is  the  very  foundation  of 
pattern   making,   a  pattern   being  technically  known   as 

"  The  Esthetics  of  F-J^cpeatcd  Space  I'orms." 


1 82  SOME   PRINCIPLES    OF   DESIGN 

a  "repeat."  When  introduced  into  representative  art 
repetition  must  be  somewhat  disguised.  The  Parthenon 
frieze  shows  constant  repetition  of  the  human  figure, 
but  with  ever  varying  pose  and  character.  A  more 
rigid  type  of  repetition  may  be  used  in  pictures  in  a 
subordinate  way,  as  in  a  string  of  beads,  an  embroidered 
pattern,  or  the  fluting  of  a  half  hidden  column. 

Rhythm.  Rhythm  in  spatial  terms  means  such  an 
arrangement  or  repetition  of  form  that  movement  in  a 
particular  direction  and  by  regular  steps  is  suggested. 
Ross  says:  ^  "In  any  space-rhythm  .  .  .  the  direction  in 
which  the  rhythm  leads  us,  the  direction  in  which  we 


Fig.  26.  Fig.  27. 

follow  it,  must  be  unmistakable."  According  to  this 
limitation  a  line  like  Fig.  26,  which  is  equivocal  in 
direction  and  can  be  read  one  way  as  well  as  another, 
is  not  strictly  rhythmical;  whereas  a  line  like  Fig.  27, 
which  reads  unmistakably  from  left  to  right,  is  rhythmi- 
cal. Of  course  it  is  possible  to  turn  the  eyes  from  right 
to  left  in  looking  at  such  a  figure,  but  anyone  who  feels 
the  suggestion  of  the  figure  itself  would,  in  all  probability, 
follow  it  the  other  way.  In  Fig.  27  the  element  or 
motive  by  itself  gives  motion,  and  the  design  as  a  whole 
is  but  a  repetition  of  it.  It  is  possible,  however,  to  get 
rhythm  in  a  series  whose  units  have  no  movement  when 
taken  separately.  A  series  whose  members  show  a  grad- 
ual increase   in   complexity  draws  the  eye  toward  the 

^  Op.  cit. 


RHYTHM    IN    DESIGN 


183 


direction  of  the  most  complicated  figure  (see  Fig.  28). 
Also  a  series  which  diminishes  in  size  or  in  interval  as 
Fig.  29  and  Fig.  30  may  give  a  sense  of  movement  in  a 
determinate  direction;  the  one  on  account  of  the  con- 
verging lines  which  it  generates,  and  the  other  on  account 
of  the  concentration  of  features  to  one  side.     The  vista 


/\ 

\  / 

Fig.  28. 

often  combines  the  effect  of  29  and  30  as  in  Fig.  31, 
hence  its  power  of  attracting  the  eye  to  its  meeting  point. 
Rhythm  in  the  sense  of  regulated  movement  in  a 
determinate  direction  is  not  present  in  such  figures  as 
Rowland  used  in  testing  repetition  (see  Fig.  25).     Never- 


FiG.  29.  Fig.  30.  Fig.  31. 

theless,  her  subjects  actually  felt  in  those  series  some- 
thing analogous  to  auditory  rhythm.  Perhaps  these 
two  different  usages  of  the  term  rhythm  as  applied  to 
visual  series  can  be  reconciled  by  regarding  the  rhythm 
experienced  by  Rowland's  subjects  as  a  subjective  rhythm 
in  the  sense  that  its  direction  was  determined  by  the 
subject,  not  by  the  series  itself.  We  could,  then,  admit 
with  Ross  that  there  is  no  objective  rhythm  present  in 
a  series  unless  the  direction  of  movement  is  fixed  by  the 
series  itself. 


1 84  SOME   PRINCIPLES    OF   DESIGN 

Effect  of  Position  in  a  Series.  Judgments  on  the 
pleasantness  of  simple  forms  are  affected  by  the  character 
of  the  series  in  which  they  are  presented.  It  is,  therefore, 
possible  to  enhance  the  attractiveness  of  a  given  figure 
by  placing  it  in  a  certain  position  in  a  series.  Witmer 
found  that  with  simple  figures  there  was  a  tendency  to 
choose  the  middle  figure  of  a  series.  In  tests  of  my  own 
(limited  in  number,  it  is  true)  it  appeared  that  there  was 
a  tendency  to  choose  a  figure  which  was  not  the  extreme 
in  a  given  series.  The  experiments  were  made  with 
circles  of  different  sizes,  and  these  were  presented  in 
graduated  series,  two  at  a  time,  three  at  a  time,  four  at  a 
time,  etc.,  up  to  eleven  at  a  time.  When  shown  three 
together,  there  was  a  tendency  to  select  the  middle  one 
as  most  agreeable.  When  four  or  more  were  shown 
together,   that  one   would   sometimes  be  chosen  which 


seemed  to  mark  the  center  or  fulcrum  of  a  balance, 
though  in  a  preceding  test  it  had  been  judged  inferior 
to  its  neighbor.  Thus,  Fig.  32,  c  was  chosen  as  most 
agreeable,  but  when  a,b,and  c  were  shown  without  d,then 
b  was  said  to  be  best.  The  same  kind  of  test  was  tried 
with  rectangles  of  different  proportions,  and  here,  too,  the 
liking  for  certain  proportions  seemed  to  be  affected  by  the 
proportions  of  the  neighboring  rectangles.     These  points 


SYMMETRY  1 85 

illustrate  the  well-known  general  law  that  the  context  in 
which  a  simple  form  is  presented  affects  the  esthetic 
judgment  of  it.  It  would  be  desirable  to  have  a  much 
more  extended  set  of  tests  than  those  mentioned.  It  is 
probable  that  the  results  would  show  an  avoidance  of 
extremes  and  a  preference  for  the  typical  (not  necessarily 
the  average)  in  esthetic  judgments. 

Effect  of  Size.  Largeness  is  sometimes  given  as  an 
esthetic  quality.  It  is  often  an  attribute  of  the  sublime. 
Gods  and  heroes  are  represented  as  something  larger 
than  human.  To  paint  vastness  in  natural  phenomena 
may  be  impressive,  and  in  architectural  construction  size 
is  certainly  an  important  element  of  efTect.  But  size  is 
impressive  only  as  an  index  of  energy  and  power,  and 
since  smallness,  compactness  and  fineness  of  organization 
are  often  also  the  signs  of  power  it  would  be  impossible 
to  regard  largeness  as  universally  and  unequivocally  an 
element  of  beauty.  Burke,  indeed,  says  that  smallness 
is  necessary  to  beauty.  It  is  safe,  and  sufficiently  definite, 
to  say  that  both  largeness  and  smallness  may  be  pleasing, 
largeness  when  it  means  power,  smallness  when  it  means 
fineness. 

Symmetry  or  Formal  Balance.  In  the  discussion  some 
pages  back,  on  the  balance  of  color,  it  was  indicated  that 
the  center  of  a  composition  is  an  apparent  fulcrum  and 
that  the  two  sides  ought  to  be  equally  weighted  in  order 
to  give  the  spectator  an  agreeable  sense  of  good  poise. 
In  a  perfectly  symmetrical  form  one  half  is  exactly  like 
the  other  except  for  the  reversal  of  direction.  The  reason 
why  we  like  a  balanced  better  than  an  unbalanced  figure 
is  explained  on  the  basis  of  our  imitative  movements. 


1 86  SOME   PRINCIPLES    OF   DESIGN 

The  human  organism  is  bilaterally  symmetrical,  and  any 
stimulus  which  arouses  activities  on  both  sides  and  in  a 
symmetrical  manner,  is  doing  something  congruous 
with  our  plan  of  bodily  organization.  Such  an  object 
stirs  us  in  a  "natural"  and  harmonious  way.  Symmet- 
rical activity  is  agreeable;  we  "feel  right"  when  the  mass 
and  the  activities  of  the  two  sides  of  our  bodies  are  bal- 
anced, and  consequently  other  things  look  right  when 
similar  conditions  obtain.  In  primitive  art  we  find 
another  factor  which  tells  in  favor  of  symmetrical  orna- 
ment. Savages  in  decorating  their  own  bodies  or  in 
helping  each  other  decorate,  had  a  symmetrical  object 
as  the  basis  of  their  designs.  It  is  probable,  then,  that 
when  they  came  to  make  designs  on  plain  surfaces  the 
tendency  to  make  them  as  usual  in  a  symmetrical  way 
would  persist. 

Now,  though  good  balance  is  always  pleasing,  a  per- 
fect geometrical  symmetry  is  seldom  used  except  in  con- 
ventional decorative  patterns,  and  in  architectural 
features.  In  representative  painting  it  would  be  too 
rigid  and  monotonous.  Variation  of  some  kind  must  be 
introduced.  Raphael  went  about  as  far  as  a  painter  may 
in  the  direction  of  formal  balance.  The  Sistine  Madonna 
is  an  example.  Here  there  is  no  literal  identity  in  the 
two  sides,  but  at  the  same  time  the  masses  and  forms 
are  pretty  evenly  matched;  there  is  a  curtain  for  a  curtain 
in  the  upper  corners,  Pope  Sixtus  for  St.  Barbara  at  the 
sides,  and  a  cherub  for  a  cherub  at  the  lower  edge. 

The  two  sides  of  a  symmetrical  or  balanced  pair  of 
lines  or  masses  are  sometimes  called  by  artists  "question 
and  answer."     Thus  Fig.  33a  is  a  question  which  may 


SYMMETRY    AND    BALANCE  187 

be  answered  as  in  Fig.  33b.  Crane  says:  "One  cannot 
draw  a  line  or  define  a  form  without  demanding  an  an- 
swer—  that  is,  a  corresponding,  re-echoing  line  or  mass." 
It  is  interesting  to  notice  the  analogy  between  this  con- 


FiG.  33. 

ception   and   the   principle  of  musical  design  which  we 
met  as  "  antecedent   and   consequent." 

Balance  of  Interest.  In  many  pictures  which  show 
but  httle  formal  symmetry  the  arrangement  of  elements 
is  such  that  there  is  a  virtual  symmetry.  Puffer  has 
called  this  a  "  substitutional  symmetry,"  and  for  the 
sake  of  illustrating  the  principle  she  has  offered  the  fol- 
lowing classification  of  the  items  of  "  weight "  in  a  picture. 
She  says  we  may  have  (i)  mass,  (2)  depth  or  visla,  (3) 
direction  of  line,  or  of  motion,  or  of  attention  (e.g.  the 
direction  in  which  a  person  in  the  picture  is  glancing), 
and  (4)  interest.  In  good  pictures  one  will  probably  find 
an  equation  in  which  two  of  these  items  are  set  over 
against  the  other  two,  unless  it  happens  that  one  item  is 
extraordinarily  strong,  and  in  this  case  it  will  be  balanced 
by  the  other  three.  In  a  portrait,  for  instance,  if  the  mass 
of  the  person's  form  is  on  one  side  of  the  canvas  together 
with  some  interesting  object  like  a  flower  or  an  animal, 
one  would  expect  to  find  on  the  opposite  side  some 
vista  or  depth,  or  direction  of  line.     In  "substitutional" 


1 88  SOME   PRINCIPLES    OF   DESIGN 

symmetry  one  finds  that  a  small,  interesting  object  may 
balance  a  larger  one  of  lesser  interest. 

Although  symmetry  of  form  and  symmetry  of  interest 
are  agreeable  features  of  pictorial  composition,  they  are 
neither  of  them  absolutely  essential.  A  strikingly  un- 
balanced picture  would  probably  always  be  uncomfort- 
able and  displeasing,  but  in  some  compositions  the  thought 
of,  or  the  feeling  for,  symmetry  seems  not  to  come  up  at  all. 
In  Watts's  portrait  of  Ellen  Terry,  for  example,  nearly 
everything  of  interest,  as  well  as  most  of  the  mass  and 
direction  of  attention,  are  far  out  on  the  left  side,  and 
in  some  Japanese  prints  it  would  be  far-fetched,  if  not 
impossible,  to  point  out  any  bilateral  symmetry.  In 
these  cases  there  is  no  felt  lack  of  balance,  the  conception 
of  balance  is  merely  irrelevant. 

Balance  on  the  Vertical  Axis.  Another  phase  of  the 
problem  of  balance  is  the  distribution  of  masses  and 
spaces  between  the  upper  and  lower  parts  of  a  com- 
position. An  arrangement  may  be  symmetrical  in  its 
right  and  left  halves,  but  wholly  unsymmetrical  as 
between  upper  and  lower  halves.  In  general,  to  prevent 
top-heaviness  and  give,  as  it  w^ere,  enough  ballast  to  a 
composition,  there  should  be  more  below  the  center  than 
above  it.  Pierce's  experiments  show  that  the  principle 
of  stabihty  is  of  even  more  moment  than  that  of  left 
and  right  balance.  An  inverted  pyramid  would  be  an 
unpleasant  and  precarious-looking  structure.  The  vis- 
ible sign  of  a  sure  equihbrium  is  breadth  of  base,  and 
most  massive  things  are  built  to  slope  by  more  or  less 
obvious  degrees  toward  their  tops.  It  is  not  true, 
though,   that    all    beautiful    and   well-poised   forms   are 


VERTICAL    BALANCE  1 89 

larger  at  the  bottom;  very  good  effects  are  sometimes 
secured  by  putting  tlic  mass  of  the  thing  represented 
near  the  upper  hmit  of  a  picture.  A  mass  of  graceful 
flowers  may  fill  the  upper  part,  with  only  their  slender 
stalks  below;  a  drift  of  clouds  or  a  flight  of  birds  may  be 
shown  high  up  in  a  picture,  with  only  a  few  faint  land- 
scape lines  below,  the  nearest  possible  approach  to 
empty  space.  Why  do  not  such  pictures  look  as  top- 
heavy  and  unstable  as  the  inverted  pyramid  ?  The 
reason  is  that  they  represent  things  which  are  not  dead, 
inanimate  weights,  but  are  delicate  and  light.  Placing 
the  flowers  or  clouds  or  birds  above  the  center  of  the 
picture,  with  the  empty  space  below,  is  just  what  suits 
their  character,  and  brings  out  their  lightness  and  buoy- 
ancy. These  two  facts,  then,  are  part  of  the  same 
truth:  to  gain  stability,  large  masses  must  lie  below  the 
center,  and  this  is  appropriate  when  the  masses  are 
supposed  to  be  heavy;  to  gain  freedom  and  buoyancy, 
masses  may  lie  above  tlie  center,  and  this  is  approi)riate 
when  the  masses  represent  something  light.  It  would 
be  interesting  to  have  experimental  evidence  on  this 
question  of  how  far  the  ideational  element  may  modify 
our  feeling  of  "  weight ''  in  a  picture. 

Central  versus  Axial  Balance.  In  Fig.  34  there  is  a 
balance  on  the  horizontal  axis  between  i  and  4  on  the 
left  as  against  2  and  3  on  the  right.  On  the  vertical 
axis  I  and  2  balance  with  4  and  3.  In  distinction  from 
these  two  types  of  balance  on  an  axis,  there  is  also  a 
relationship  of  balance  between  i  and  3  and  between  2 
and  4.  Ross  designates  this  as  balance  around  a  center, 
or  balance  of  double  inversion.     It   is  evident  that  if  i 


190 


SOME   PRINCIPLES    OF   DESIGN 


were  revolved  around  the  vertical  axis  it  would  coincide 
with  2,  and  if  then  revolved  around   the   horizontal  it 

would  coincide  with  3.  An 
illustration  of  this  kind  of 
balance  is  apparent  in  Ho- 
kusai's  wave  (Fig.  35). 

This  wave  picture  illustrates 
about  all  the  points  that  we 
have  made  on  visual  form. 
The  sides  of  the  inclosing 
rectangle  are  as  3 :  2  (the  pro- 
portion which  Fechner  places 
next  to  the  golden  section  in 
beauty).  The  two  most  prominent  lines,  as  well  as  some 
of  the  subordinate  ones,  are  serpentine  in  form.     There 


1  2 

4  3 


Fig.  34. 


Fig.  35. 


is  a  substitutional  symmetry  in  the  balance  between  the 
mass  of  the  wave  on  the  left  and  the  effect  of  aerial 
depth  which    (in  the  colored  print)   is  brought  out  on 


OPTICAL   ILLUSIONS  I9I 

the  right.  There  is  also  a  shock  of  opposed  forces 
visible  in  the  water  sliding  down  from  the  right,  but 
tossed  back  from  the  left.  The  buoyancy  of  the  wave 
is  increased  by  the  fact  that  the  crest  is  so  near  the  upper 
edge  of  the  picture.  There  is  fine  repetition  in  the 
serpentine  lines,  and,  finally,  there  is  the  relationship  of 
double  inverted  balance  between  the  two  main  lines 
X  and  y. 

Effect  of  Optical  Illusions.  It  is  important  to  the 
artist  to  recognize  the  character  of  certain  optical  illusions 
in  order  that  he  may  know  either  how  to  make  use  of 
them  in  his  work,  or  how  to  compensate  for  them. 
Among  the  most  common  and  patent  of  such  illusions 
are  the  following:  (i)  There  is  a  tendency  to  overesti- 
mate vertical  as  compared  with  horizontal  distance. 
Hence  a  figure  which  really  is  square  looks  a  trifle 
taller  than  it  looks  broad,  and  in  order  to  get  a  figure  to 
look  square  the  designer  must  make  it  a  little  broader 
than  the  geometrical  square.  Experiment  shows  that 
the  apparent  squares  are  esthetically  more  pleasing  than 
the  figures  which  measure  square  but  do  not  look  it. 
(2)  There  is  also  a  tendency  to  overestimate  size  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  field  of  vision.  The  letter  S  looks  as 
if  its  upper  and  lower  parts  were  about  equal  in  size;  but 
when  it  is  inverted  we  can  see  that  we  must  ordinarily 
overestimate  the  part  that  belongs  above.  (3)  This 
exaggeration  of  the  upper  part  of  a  figure  is  sometimes 
reversed  by  other  illusions.  Thus  in  Fig.  36a  i  looks 
slightly  larger  than  2,  though  they  are  the  same  size,  but 
in  the  second  arrangement.  Fig.  36b,  i  seems  rather 
smaller  than  2,  though  again  they  are  the  same.     (4)  The 


192  SOME    PRINCIPLES    OF    DESIGN 

familiar  AIullcr-Lycr  illusion  is  another  which  should 
influence  artistic  treatment.  The  apparent  length  of 
line  can  be  changed  by  changing  the  direction  of  the  lines 
which  diverge  from  it.  (5)  The  classical  instance  of 
artistic  correction  for  illusion  is  in  the   Greek  temple. 


Fig.  36. 

The  stylobate  of  the  temple  curves  upward  in  the  middle 
to  correct  the  apparent  sag  in  long  horizontals  with 
verticals  resting  on  them.  The  entasis,  or  outward 
swelling  of  the  column,  prevents  the  somewhat  concave 
appearance  which  rigidly  upright  lines  would  give.  The 
axes  of  the  columns  converge  a  little  at  their  tops,  pre- 
venting any  appearance  of  spreading  apart. 

There  are  many  more  optical  illusions  to  which  we 
are  subject,  and  many  other  forms  of  the  ones  mentioned, 
but  there  has  been  enough  said  to  show  that  optical  illu- 
sion may  have  a  very  considerable  influence  in  artistic 
work. 

Union  of  Action  with  Repose.  No  artistic  work 
should  be  composed  wholly  of  active  lines  or  wholly  of 
resting  lines;  a  design  which  gives  nothing  but  excite- 
ment is  apt  to  be  wearing,  while  one  which  gives  nothing 
but  repose  is  apt  to  be  dull.  The  eye  in  either  case 
demands  variety  and  relief.  Here,  too,  we  might  speak 
of  a  balance  as  obtaining  between  stimulation  and  rest. 


ADAPTATION    IN   DESIGN  I93 

This  formula  is  adopted,  indeed,  by  Puffer  as  the  test 
of  every  kind  of  art.  But  if  we  adopt  the  conception 
of  balance  we  fail  to  allow  for  the  fact  that  some  com- 
positions may  properly  have  more  stimulative  power  and 
less  rest  in  them  than  others,  A  more  liberal  formula 
would  be  the  "union''  of  action  with  repose,  leaving  the 
amount  of  each  indeterminate. 

Adaptation  to  Conditions.  An  artist  in  creating  new 
forms  does  not  merely  "design"  them;  he  designs  them 
for  something,  or  in  answer  to  some  demand.  A  designer 
who  is  commissioned  to  decorate  a  specified  surface 
finds  himself  confronted  with  specified  limitations, 
within  which  he  must  work.  His  space  is  of  a  certain 
size  and  shape,  and  occupies  a  certain  position  in  a 
building.  The  building  itself  is  dedicated  to  certain 
purposes,  and  possibly  it  is  desired  that  the  design  should 
illustrate  some  given  conception,  or  commemorate  a  given 
event.  All  this  looks  at  first  like  so  much  hindrance  to 
the  artist's  imagination;  but  it  becomes,  in  fact,  sugges- 
tive to  him  of  an  arrangement  of  lines  and  figures  which 
he  would  otherwise  not  have  conceived.  When  working 
without  a  commission  an  artist  must  set  up  limitations 
for  himself,  must  imagine  himself  into  a  situation  from 
which  suggestions  may  come.  Just  as,  within  a  com- 
position, some  lines  are  the  answer  to  others,  so  the 
composition  as  a  whole  is  an  answer  to  the  situation  or 
set  of  conditions.  In  yielding  to  these  specific  conditions 
and  expressing  them,  the  design  becomes  individual  and 
gains  specific  character.  In  adapting  his  old  images  to 
new  situations,  in  cooperating  with  new  conditions, 
the  artist  produces  something  new.     We  should  be  able 


194  SOME   PRINCIPLES    OF   DESIGN 

to  tell  at  a  glance  what  kind  of  space  a  figure  was  designed 
for,  whether  for  a  square,  a  circle,  a  spandril,  a  lunette, 
etc.  If  it  is  possible  to  do  this,  then  the  design  expresses 
its  spatial  conditions,  and  is  adapted  to  them.  A  design, 
also,  which  lets  one  see  the  sentiment  which  prompted  it, 
expresses  and  is  adapted  to  another  of  its  conditions. 

Reading  References 

Ross:   "A  Theory  of  Pure  Design." 

Crane:   "The  Bases  of  Design."  "Line  and  Form." 

Day:   "Pattern  Designing." 

Batchelder:   "The  Principles  of  Design." 

Poore:   "Pictorial  Composition." 

Puffer;   "Studies  in  Symmetry."     Harvard  Psy.  Studies,  vol.  i. 

Pierce:   "Esthetics  of  Simple  Forms."     Psy.  Rev.,  vol.  1. 

Martin:  "An  Experimental  Study  of  Fechner's  Principles  of 
Esthetics."     Psy.  Rev.,  vol.  xiii. 

Rowland:  "The  Esthetics  of  Repeated  Space  Forms."  Harvard 
Psy.  Studies,  vol.  ii. 

Mumford:  "Oriental  Rugs."     Chapter  on  "  Design." 


CHAPTER    XI 
ARCHITECTURE 

Architecture,  as  distinguished  from  sculpture,  paint- 
ing and  surface  design  is  more  readily  recognized  as  a 
practical  art.  It  serves  to  inclose  and  protect  spaces 
for  human  use,  and  to  support  and  "set"'  other  works  of 
art.  To  accommodate  specific  needs  of  private  life,  of 
civic  life,  of  religious  worship,  etc.,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  satisfy  the  general  need  of  pleasing  the  eye,  is  the 
twofold  purpose  of  the  art  of  building.  Architecture, 
like  pure  ornament,  is  not  the  imitation  of  an  object, 
but  is  the  object  itself.  Unlike  pure  ornament,  it  has 
special  practical  ends  to  fulfil.  Notwithstanding  its  prac- 
tical connection  with  life,  architecture  is  known  as  an 
abstract  art. 

Architecture  is  Abstract.  In  the  terminology  of 
Hegel,  art  is  the  manifestation  of  the  Idea  (by  which 
is  meant  the  concrete  world-process)  to  Sense.  The 
earliest  form  of  art  is  an  imperfect  one-sided  presentation 
of  the  idea;  it  is  symbolic  and  abstract.  The  chief  form 
of  art  at  this  stage  is  architecture.  Architecture,  we  may 
say,  is  abstract  in  that  it  is  a  less  intimate  and  less  flexible 
medium  than  some  of  the  other  arts  for  the  portrayal  of 
human  emotions  and  events. 

There  is  another  sense,  however,  in  which  architecture 
is  abstract,  —  a  sense  which  is  more  concerned  with  the 
actual  structure  of  a  building  than  with  its  ideal  express- 

195 


196  ARCHITECTURE 

iveness.  A  structure  is  abstract  when  the  masses  and 
lines  which  compose  it  seem  to  proceed  directly  about 
their  business,  and  to  have  the  minimum  of  imitative 
intention  or  of  unreasoned  deviation  from  their  purpose. 
The  elements  of  artistic  building  are  masses,  spaces  and 
lines,  and  these  are  abstractions  from  the  visible  universe 
as  we  experience  it.  A  vertical  shaft,  for  example, 
resembles  in  a  sense  many  different  natural  forms;  it  is 
like  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  the  stem  of  a  flower,  the  leg  of  an 
animal,  the  body  of  a  man.  It  resembles  all  these,  and 
they  resemble  each  other  by  virtue  of  standing  upright 
and  being  able  to  carry  a  weight.  Similarly,  a  horizontal 
beam  resembles  a  tree-trunk  laid  down,  or  a  long  flat  stone, 
or  the  roof  or  floor  of  a  cave,  and  this  simply  because 
it  spreads  out  from  side  to  side  and  is  proof  against  the 
weather.  Both  the  vertical  shaft  and  the  horizontal  beam 
represent  the  element  which  is  common  to  a  number  of 
natural  forms;  they  each  embody  the  general  characteristic 
of  a  group, — of  support  on  the  one  hand  and  covering  on 
the  other,  —  without  literally  imitating  any  special  mem- 
ber of  the  group.  In  this  sense  they  are  both  abstract 
forms;  they  stand  for  the  common  or  generic  idea  of  the 
group.  Simple  geometrical  figures  like  shafts  and  beams, 
though  the  feeling-tone  which  we  connect  with  them  is  the 
result  of  all  past  associations  with  their  like,  are  so  far 
shaken  free  from  particular  circumstance  that  we  do  not 
have  to  think  of  them  as  really  imitating  anything  or  rep- 
resenting anything  except  the  idea  of  support  and  pro- 
tection. The  primitive  builder  propped  up  or  roofed 
over  his  shelter  with  what  branches  or  stones  he  found 
at  hand.     But  as  soon  as  the  ideas  of  roofing  and  of 


OLD    FORMS    PERSIST  I97 

support  became  dissociated  for  him  from  accidental 
forms,  that  is,  became  independent  of  particular  stones 
or  posts,  he  doubtless  became  more  critical  of  his  mater- 
ials, began  in  his  mind  to  whittle  away  their  irrclevancies, 
and  to  imagine  a  more  direct  and  abstract  fulfilment  of 
his  ideas. 

Inertia  of  Established  Forms.  The  architectural 
inventor,  like  every  inventor,  picks  out  from  already 
existing  things  the  principle  which  is  essential  to  his 
particular  purpose.  Sometimes,  however,  the  existing 
forms  carry  such  a  weight  of  suggestion  with  them  that 
he  fails  to  abstract  enough  from  them,  fails  to  analyze 
the  logical  elements  from  the  traditional,  and  hence  it 
happens  that  old  forms,  or  modifications  of  forms,  get 
repeated  in  situations  where  they  are  no  longer  needed. 
Liibke  ^  mentions  the  fact  that  in  some  of  the  smaller 
pyramids  of  Egypt  the  lintel  of  the  entrance  "distinctly 
reminds  us  of  a  wooden  construction;  for  in  many  cases 
there  is  a  cylindrical,  trunk-like  beam  uniting  the  two 
door-posts,  and  even  the  ceilings  of  the  apartments  are 
repeatedly  made  in  imitation  of  pieces  of  wood  fastened 
together."  The  likeness  of  the  Greek  Doric  temple  to 
its  wooden  forerunners  has  often  been  written  of.  Crane 
says^  the  temples  "may  be  considered  as  only  glorified 
enlargements  in  marble  of  their  wooden  predecessors, 
retaining  all  the  characteristic  details  of  those  primi- 
tive structures."  Again,  when  the  Romans  copied  the 
Greek  column  and  combined  it  with  tlieir  arch  they 
did  not  wholly  abstract  the  column  from  its  connection 
with   the  architrave   which   it   supported.     As   Statham 

'  "History  of  Art."  ^  "The  Bases  of  Design." 


198  ARCHITECTURE 

writes:^  "To  their  ideas  .  .  .  it  evidently  seemed  that 
a  column  was  incomplete  without  an  entablature;  and 
accordingly,  instead  of  springing  the  arch  from  the 
column,  they  inserted  a  square  slice  of  the  proper  entab- 
lature over  the  column,  and  sprung  the  arch  or  vault 
from  that."  Such  instances  are  unthinking  appropria- 
tions of  earlier  forms.  They  serve  to  remind  us  that 
concrete  art-works  cannot  be  always  wholly  explained 
by  reference  to  constructive  necessities  or  to  conscious 
esthetic  preferences.  As  the  architect  advances,  however, 
in  artistic  thought  he  subjects  the  old  forms  to  critical 
analysis,  and  retains  only  the  parts  which  can  be  made 
useful  either  in  the  construction  or  the  ornamentation 
of  the  new  form. 

Expressiveness  of  a  Building.  Architecture  may  be 
expressive  in  a  variety  of  ways.  It  expresses  first  its 
climatic  conditions,  since  it  is  a  method  of  meeting 
them,  a  response  to  their  inclemency.  The  roof,  the 
projecting  cornice  and  drip-stone  answer  the  purpose 
of  carrying  off  rain.  The  sharp  gable  of  northern 
structures  sheds  off  the  snow.  Southern  buildings,  which 
have  to  keep  out  the  hot  sun,  have  relatively  little  window 
space,  while  northern  buildings  with  their  relatively 
greater  window  space,  are  adapted  to  a  condition  of 
mistier  illumination. 

A  building  may  reflect  the  social  condition  of  the 
workmen  who  make  it.  Ruskin  professes  to  tell  the 
degree  in  which  the  individual  workman  is  free  or  is 
reduced  to  the  condition  of  a  mere  machine  by  observing 
whether  the  details  of  a  given  building  are  alike  or  not. 

'  "Architecture  for  General  Readers." 


architectura:.  expression  199 

"If,  as  in  Greek  work,"  he  says,  "all  the  capitals  are 
alike,  and  all  the  moldings  unvaried,  then  the  degradation 
is  complete  ...  if,  as  in  Gothic  work,  there  is  perpet- 
ual change  both  in  design  and  execution,  the  workman 
must  have  been  altogether  set  free."  Many  of  the 
structures  of  antiquity  are  simple  in  conception  but 
remarkable  in  bulk,  and  might  therefore  seem  to  express 
the  subjection  of  many  workmen  to  a  few  thinkers;  they 
show  a  quantity  of  brute  force  rather  than  an  association 
of  many  intellects.  Gothic  building,  on  the  contrary,  is 
not  a  mere  quantitative  achievement,  but  shows  im.ag- 
inative  power  in  its  many  details,  and  stands  as  the 
result  of  intelligent  and  interested  cooperation,  rather 
than  the  dull  fulfilment  of  despotic  command. 

Buildings  for  religious  use  are  expressive  of  the  type 
of  worship  which  is  performed  in  them.  Churches  in 
which  the  priestly  functions  are  regarded  as  sacred, 
or  as  highly  important,  emphasize  the  position  of  the 
altar;  the  main  body  of  the  church  forms  an  avenue 
leading  up  to  the  altar-end,  which  is  elevated  and  railed 
in  as  holy  ground.  On  the  other  hand,  churches  in  which 
a  spoken  address  is  the  main  part  of  the  service  tend 
to  take  the  theater  or  auditorium  shape,  the  long  vista 
being  replaced  by  a  more  shallow  and  circular  arrange- 
ment. In  Mohammedan  mosques  there  is  no  vista 
leading  up  to  the  shrine;  for  the  Mohammedan  does  not 
look  on  any  special  part  of  his  mosque  as  sacred. 

Architecture  may  express  the  sentiments  or  tempera- 
ment of  the  builders,  as  Gothic  is  said  to  represent  aspira- 
tion, the  Greek  temple  rationality  and  repose,  the  Egyptian 
mystery   and    awe.     To   say   that    a   building   expresses 


200  ARCHITECTURE 

certain  sentiments  is  not  saying  that  every  part  and  line 
of  the  building  was  consciously  designed  by  the  builders 
to  express  these  things,  but  merely  that  the  structure  as  a 
whole  was  conceived  under  the  influence  of  certain  feel- 
ings. To  take  Gothic  for  an  example,  it  seems  fair  to  say 
that  a  Gothic  church  as  a  whole  was  consciously  meant 
to  express  religious  aspiration;  there  certainly  was  no 
"constructive  necessity"  which  compelled  men  to  build 
to  such  towering  heights;  but  the  determination  once 
given  to  build  to  a  great  height,  there  was  a  constructive 
necessity  for  using  pointed  arches  to  attain  it.  Thus 
the  pointed  arch  was  at  first  merely  a  technical  require- 
ment. For  the  observer  of  the  finished  product  the 
expressiveness  of  a  building  depends  upon  the  way  its 
lines  and  masses  affect  his  physiological  functions. 
Certain  lines,  as  we  have  seen,  have  accumulated  emo- 
tional meanings,  and  naturally  when  these  predominate 
in  a  given  building,  the  building  as  a  whole  will  affect 
the  observer  in  a  characteristic  manner.  New  combin- 
ations of  these  significant  lines  may  be  made  which  will 
give  a  building  an  emotional  tone  peculiarly  its  own. 

Finally  a  building  is  considered  expressive  if  it  plainly 
shows  the  principles  of  its  own  construction  and  the 
plan  of  its  parts.  The  main  lines  of  a  building  should, 
in  general,  reveal  rather  than  hide  the  mechanical  prob- 
lems which  the  architect  has  had  to  solve  and  the 
physical  means  by  which  he  has  done  it.  A  few  examples 
will  point  out  the  difference  between  lines  which  reveal 
and  those  which  conceal  a  principle.  In  Fig.  37a,  b 
and  c,  the  inside  lines  form  respectively  the  line  of  the 
lintel,   the  round   arch,   and   the   pointed   arch.     In   all 


ARCHITECTURAL   EXPRESSION 


20I 


three  cases,  however,  the  principle  of  construction  is  the 
same,  namely,  the  principle  of  the  lintel,  since  the  space 
between  the  supports  is  bridged  in  each  case  by  a  cross- 
piece  which  exerts  only  vertical  pressure.    In  order  to  be 


/\ 

/^^ 

c 

a 

b 
Fig. 

37- 

an  arch  in  constructive  principle  as  well  as  in  line  the  arch 
must  be  built  up  of  wedged-in  pieces  (voussoirs)  which 
exert  lateral  pressure,  as  in  Fig.  38a  and  b.  To  take  a 
reverse  illustration,  one  might  find  a  building  constructed 
in   real   arches,  in   which   the   arches   were   masked   by 


Fig.  38. 

a  wooden  framework  on  the  lines  of  the  lintel.  This 
sort  of  procedure  is  in  general  considered  improper. 
So,  too,  would  a  dome  on  the  exterior  of  a  building  be  out 
of  keeping  with  a  flat  ceiling  inside.  The  exterior,  to  be 
expressive,  should  give  some  clue  to  the  interior  plan. 
Obviously,  if  one  i)art  of  a  building  is  to  be  expressive  of 


202  ARCHITECTURE 

the  Other  parts,  there  must  be  a  certain  congruity  of  lines 
and  consistency  of  style  throughout.  When  there  is 
such  a  harmony  that  the  details  conform  to  the  general 
character  of  the  structure,  echoing  the  lines  of  the  whole, 
then  any  part  may  be  said  to  express  the  whole. 

Ruskin's  discussion  of  the  "Lamp  of  Truth"  in 
architecture  takes  up  the  subject  of  expression  as  if  it 
were  a  matter  of  morals.  It  is  bad,  he  considers,  to  use 
materials,  such  as  imitation  marbles,  which  look  to  be 
what  they  are  not.  It  is  dishonest  to  leave  parts  of  a 
building  unfinished  just  because  they  will  not  be  seen. 
The  using  of  machine-made  for  hand-made  ornaments 
is  a  "downright  and  inexcusable  lie."  What  is  the 
justification,  if  any,  we  may  ask,  for  such  a  point  of  view 
as  Ruskin's?  What  has  architecture  got  to  do  with 
truth  ?  Truth  in  architecture,  one  may  say,  depends  on 
a  correspondence  between  appearance  and  constructive 
fact.  But  this  statement  admits  of  some  modification; 
a  distinction  ought  to  be  made  between  a  good  deception, 
a  thing  which  looks  entirely  probable,  a  thing  which 
might  be  true  but  happens  to  be  false,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  a  thing  which  on  the  face  of  it  must  be  false.  If 
marble  were  imitated  successfully,  and  used  where 
marble  might  be  appropriately  used,  the  result  would 
not  be  artistically  bad.  But  the  second  kind  of  falseness, 
where  a  striking  improbability  presents  itself  to  the  eye, 
is  likely  to  be  found  displeasing.  Examples  of  this  kind 
of  untruth  are  found  in  certain  domes.  The  external 
dome  of  St.  Paul's  in  London '  is  said  to  be  a  wooden  one 
representing  stone,  and  is  built  over  a  stone  cone  which 

'  See  Statham,  "Architecture  for  General  Readers." 


ARCHITECTURAL   TRUTH  203 

rises  from  the  real  internal  dome  of  masonry.  Sur- 
mounting the  whole  is  a  heavy  stone  lantern,  which 
looks  as  if  it  were  carried  by  the  external  dome,  but  is 
actually  supported  by  the  hidden  stone  cone.  The 
objectionable  feature  is  that  a  dome  the  size  and  shape  of 
the  external  one  could  not  really  carry  such  a  lantern 
as  it  appears  to  do.  Again,  the  dome  of  the  Florentine 
cathedral  built  in  the  shape  it  is  could  not  stand  were 
it  not  for  the  chains  which,  hidden  between  the  outer  and 
inner  shells  of  the  dome,  encircle  it  and  bind  it  together.* 
Visible  buttresses  rather  than  hidden  chains  are  the 
normal  principle  of  dome  construction.  To  an  architect's 
eye,  therefore,  these  two  domes  would  each  appear  to  be 
doing  an  impossible  thing.  Just  as  we  said  of  a  dancer 
that  he  must  not  merely  be  well  poised,  but  must  appear 
so  to  the  eye  of  the  spectator,  so  a  building  must  not 
merely  be  stable;  it  must  also  look  stable.  It  should 
appear  probable,  and  seem  to  explain  itself  to  the  eye. 
To  be  consistent  with  itself,  and  not  to  appear  miraculous, 
is  the  only  necessary  truth  for  architecture. 

Principles  of  Ornament.  In  jjrimitive  art,  buildings 
are  often  loaded  with  pictures  and  barbaric  gauds  which 
are  evidently  designed  to  enrich  the  whole  impression, 
but  which  sometimes  tend  to  obliterate  the  beauty  of  the 
building  they  are  meant  to  adorn.  The  reason  is  that 
they  are  merely  annexed  to  it  and  not  incorporated  with 
it  ideally.  In  more  mature  art  the  necessity  for  the 
"working  in''  or  adapting  process  becomes  felt,  until 
finally  only  that  is  recognized  as  ornament  which  seems 
suggested   by   the   structure   to   which   it   is   added.     In 

*  See  Moore's  "Renaissance  Architecture." 


204  ARCHITECTURE 

attaining  harmonious  adornment  two  important  principles 
must  be  followed:  the  principle  of  repetition,  whereby 
a  feature  already  existing  in  the  building  is  intensified 
and  set  off  by  imitation;  and  the  principle  of  contrast, 
whereby  a  feature  is  pleasantly  counterbalanced  by  lines 
or  figures  of  an  opposite  character.  Examples  of  the  first 
principle  arc  found  in  the  fluting  of  columns,  where  the 
channels  multiply  and  so  emphasize  the  vertical  lines 
of  the  shaft;  also  in  moldings,  cornices  and  vault-ribs, 
which  mark  and  repeat  their  corresponding  construction 
lines.  An  example  of  the  second  principle  is  apparent 
where  the  continuous  straight  lines  of  a  molding  are 
varied  by  having  curling  leaf  or  flower  forms  applied  to 
them.  "Contrast,"  of  course,  does  not  for  a  moment 
mean  merely  "  difference. "  Suppose  one  had  a  border  of 
repeating  flowers  carved  in  stone,  and  wished  to  introduce 
some  differences  into  the  series.  One  could  insert  bits 
of  colored  glass,  say,  or  little  tin  soldiers,  and  get  variety, 
but  the  break  between  the  flowers  and  such  alternates 
as  these  would  be  too  great  to  afford  any  real  sense  of 
contrast.  To  introduce  real  contrast  into  a  border  of 
stone  flowers  one  must  stick  to  the  original  material,  and 
select  some  form  congruous  with  the  flowers,  say  a  leaf 
or  tendril,  which  may  be  allowed  to  curve  in  a  direction 
opposite  to  the  flowers.  This  would  introduce  difference, 
but  with  a  certain  similarity  as  the  backbone  of  the 
arrangement,  and  such  difference  is  contrast.  Contrast 
implies  as  strict  a  reference  to  the  original  form  as 
imitation  does. 

Architecture   in   Relation  to  Landscape.     The  embel- 
lishments of  a  building  must  conform  to  its  character; 


RELATION  TO  LANDSCAPE  205 

but  the  building  itself  may  be  regarded  as  the  ornament 
of  a  landscape  to  which  it  in  turn  should  conform.  A 
structure  may,  in  a  limited  way,  reflect  by  imitation  and 
by  contrast  the  character  of  its  natural  surroundings. 
It  is  part  of  a  larger  whole.  The  impressiveness  of  the 
Greek  temple  is  greatly  heightened  when  considered  in 
relation  to  its  proper  site.  In  Greece,  where  the  forma- 
tion of  the  hills  gives  endless  and  restless  variety,  it  is 
fitting  that  the  architecture  should  introduce  repose  and 
a  point  of  calm  into  the  scene.  The  temple  which  is  the 
crown  and  finish  of  a  rocky  citadel  like  the  acropolis  of 
Athens,  or  which  commands  the  heights  and  distances  of 
Delphi  or  Egina  must  have  simplicity  and  repose.  To 
dominate  Greek  landscape  the  trait  most  essential  is 
severity  and  poise.  The  Gothic  cathedral,  on  the  con- 
trary, which  rises  as  the  sole  eminence  in  a  level  land,  may 
soar  as  high  as  it  can,  and  properly  display  its  lavish 
variety  of  architectural  features.  Castle  architecture  is 
harmonious  with  promontories  or  precipitous  rocks;  for 
the  strong  lines  of  the  battlements  take  up  and  complete 
the  rugged  character  of  such  situations.  In  cottage 
architecture  it  is  sometimes  possible  for  the  lines  of  the 
roof  to  echo  the  slope  of  neighboring  hills  or  of  surround- 
ing trees,  and  wherever  such  harmony  is  possible  it  is 
a  contribution  to  the  beauty  of  the  whole  scene. 

Certain  Architectural  Types.  It  is  customary  to  dis- 
tinguish three  ways  of  covering  in  a  space,  namely,  by 
the  lintel,  the  round  arch,  and  the  pointed  arch.  Moore 
says^  that  "  There  have  thus  far  existed  in  Europe 
but    three    entirelv    consistent    and    distinctive    styles; 

'  "  The  Character  of  Renaissance  Architecture." 


206  ARCHITECTURE 

namely,  the  Greek,  the  Byzantine,  and  the  Gothic." 
Lintel  architecture  is  most  perfectly  expressed  in  the 
Greek  temple,  Byzantine  style  best  exemplifies  the  use  of 
the  round  arch  and  the  dome,  and  Gothic  the  use  of  the 
pointed  arch  and  high  gable.  In  the  following  accounts 
of  these  three  types,  and  one  other,  the  Egyptian, 
we  shall  try  to  characterize  the  emotional  effect  of  the 
typical  lines  and  space-arrangements  on  the  beholder. 
We  wish  to  determine  what  feelings  these  buildings 
stimulate   and   how   they  do   it. 

Egyptian.  The  Egyptian  temple  was  built  on  the 
plan  of  an  enormous  oblong,  being  about  three  times  as 
long  as  it  was  broad.  Of  the  external  appearance  Liibke 
says;!  "Huge sloping  walls,  crowned  with  the  overshadow- 
ing concave  cornice,  surround  its  enclosure,  and  invest  the 
whole  with  a  solemn  and  mysterious  character.  No  open- 
ing for  windows,  no  colonnade  interrupts  the  monotonous 
surface  of  the  temple  wall.  .  .  ."  Entering  this  structure 
through  a  massive  gateway  the  worshiper  passed  through 
halls  and  courts  which  enclosed  long  rows  of  great 
columns.  The  avenues  of  pillars  finally  led  up  to  the 
furthest  end  where  the  small  inner  chamber  was  reserved, 
sacred  to  the  gods,  and  entered  only  by  the  priests.  All 
the  rest  of  the  building  formed  a  setting  and  an  approach 
to  this.  The  size  and  immense  solidity  of  the  entire 
structure,  the  mighty  columns  of  the  interior  and  the 
stateliness  of  arrangement,  were  well  calculated  to  com- 
mand the  sentiments  of  wonder  and  awe.  The  great 
sloping  walls  would  suggest  an  everlasting  strength  like 
that  of  the  pyramids.     The  impression  of  mystery  was 

'Op.  cit. 


EGYPTIAN    AND    GREEK  20/ 

fostered,  not  only  by  the  severely  shut,  uncommunicative 
exterior,  but  also  by  the  fact  that  the  sanctuary  was 
remotely  withdrawn,  and  could  be  approached  only  by 
the  whole  length  of  the  vast  building.  The  Egyptian 
temple  may  well  stand  as  an  expression  of  ancient  ideals 
and  the  ancient  regime,  inasmuch  as  it  exalts  strength 
and  endurance  above  everything.  It  shows  a  relatively 
simple  idea  carried  out  on  a  great  scale,  a  state  of  affairs 
more  likely  to  come  true  in  a  despotism  where  the  ideas 
of  one  man,  or  of  a  small  group  of  men,  may  be  imposed 
on  the  efforts  of  many. 

Greek.  The  Greek  temple,  built  with  reference  to 
external  rather  than  internal  appearance,  is  quite  the 
reverse  of  the  Egyptian  in  having  its  colonnades  outside 
and  its  walls  inside.  The  Greek  temple  is  also  smaller 
and  more  compact  than  the  Egyptian  (the  Parthenon 
measures  loi  by  227  feet,  the  temple  of  Karnak  370  by 
1200  feet).  The  Greek  edifice,  instead  of  leading  up  in 
one  direction  to  a  shrine,  offers  an  approach  from  every 
side.  The  exterior  is  one  continuous  portal.  This  free 
and  open  plan  of  the  building  and  its  moderate  size  show 
that  a  wholly  different  type  of  appeal  was  intended  from 
that  made  by  the  forbidding  and  mysterious  Egyptian 
exterior. 

The  principle  lines  of  the  Greek  temple  arc  the  ver- 
ticals, which  give  an  appearance  of  strength  and  effort, 
the  broad  sweej)  of  the  horizontals,  which  give  repose,  and 
the  slant  of  the  low  gable  introducing  action  and  life  with- 
out destroying  c^uiet.  This  temple  is  the  admired  and  per- 
fect example  of  beauty  in  simplicity,  and  there  is,  indeed, 
a  serene  candor  in  it.     The  main  plan  of  the  building 


208  ARCHITECTURE 

is  immediately  perceived,  and,  far  from  being  in  any 
way  concealed,  the  constructive  principle  is  laid  open. 
Whatever  lines  are  found  to  be  necessary  are  accepted  as 
comely  and  made  conspicuous  by  repetition;  the  vertical 
lines  of  support  are  repeated,  not  only  from  column  to 
column,  but  also  in  the  channeling  of  the  shafts,  and  in  the 
lines  of  the  triglyphs.  The  horizontals  are  emphasized 
in  the  architrave,  frieze  and  cornice.  This  structure,  by 
its  very  simplicity  and  clearness  of  design,  even  makes  on 
some  minds  the  impression  of  hardness  and  finality. 
Ruskin  says:'  "No  architecture  is  so  haughty  as  that 
which  is  simple  .  .  .  which  implies,  in  offering  so  little 
to  our  regards,  that  all  it  has  offered  is  perfect." 

Every  part  of  this  apparently  simple  structure  was 
carefully  thought  out  in  its  relation  to  the  effect  of  the 
whole.  The  corner  columns,  which  are  seen  against  the 
sky,  and  so  suffer  apparent  diminution  by  irradiation, 
are  made  slightly  larger  than  the  others  in  compensation. 
The  profiles  of  Greek  moldings  do  not  show  easy  and 
obvious  curves  like  the  circle,  but  are  subtly  graded. 
The  shadows  on  the  triglyphs  are  carefully  toned  by  the 
device  of  undercutting  the  edge  of  the  stone.  A  multi- 
tude of  refinements  witness  the  supreme  care  with  which 
the  proportions  and  details  were  considered;  and,  though 
the  building  problems  of  the  Greeks  were  limited,  they 
were  solved  artistically  with  a  brilliant  completeness. 

The  Greek  has  been  called  the  architecture  of  "rational- 
ity," though  this  is  scarcely  a  lucid  term.  "Rationality" 
might  mean  a  variety  of  things  in  connection  with  building: 
in  one  sense  any  structure  is  rational  which  is  adequate 

'    "  Stones  of  Venice." 


GREEK   AND    BYZANTINE  209 

to  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  devised,  and  in  this  sense 
the  Greek  temple  is  no  more  rational  than  many  another 
building  of  wholly  different  character.  But  if  by 
"rational"  one  means  that  which  is  opposed  to  the  mys- 
terious, and  to  the  fanciful,  and  something  which  is 
preeminently  moderate,  then  the  Greek  temple  is  appro- 
priately called  rational.  It  is  moderate  in  size.  Its 
ornamentation  is  adequate  but  not  luxuriant.  It  shows 
a  minimum  of  unreasoned  variation;  thus  in  a  given 
series  of  columns  the  capitals  are  alike,  for  one  form 
having  been  selected  as  best  is  maintained  throughout. 
The  whole  impression  is  of  a  thing  matchless  in  serenity 
and  dignity. 

Byzantine.  Byzantine  is  the  completely  developed 
architecture  of  the  round  arch  and  the  dome,  and  Santa 
Sophia  is  the  supreme  example  of  the  type.  The  square 
and  the  circle,  Ruskin  says,  are  the  areas  of  power. 
Both  principles  are  characteristic  of  Byzantine  architec- 
ture, which  gains  thereby  a  concentration  or  compact 
might.  The  ground  plan  of  Santa  Sophia  is  nearly 
square,  and  the  drum  of  the  great  central  dome  rests  on 
four  large  arches  arranged  in  a  square.  The  spaces 
between  the  corners  of  the  square  and  the  ring  of  the 
dome  are  covered  in  by  quarter-domes.  Byzantine 
architecture,  which  was  designed  chiefly  for  interior  elTect, 
gets  interior  variety  from  its  columns  and  piers,* its  flat 
surfaces  and  domed  surfaces,  its  straight  and  its  arched 
lines.  The  details  are  consistent  with,  and  expressive 
of  the  general  plan,  the  windows  being  round-headed  and 
the  capitals  of  the  columns  convex.  The  round  arch 
is  a  less  severe,  much  more  buoyant  line  than  the  lintel, 


2 1 0  ARCHITECTURE 

and  a  series  of  mounting  curves,  like  those  of  the 
Byzantine  interior,  gives  a  feeling  of  lightness  and 
elastic  power.  There  is  something  ample  and  gracious 
in  such  lines  and  spaces. 

Byzantine  architecture  is  distinguished  also  by  the 
splendor  of  its  interior  decorations.  The  free  use  of 
colored  marbles,  and  of  rich  mosaics  against  their  gold 
backgrounds  contribute  to  an  impression  of  luxury  and 
magnificence  which  is  equally  removed  from  Greek 
severity  and  from  Gothic  gloom.  It  brings  a  sense  of 
present  realization  rather  than  of  aspiration, 

Gothic.  Conspicuous  features  of  Gothic  style  are  the 
large  central  nave,  terminating  in  a  choir;  side  aisles,  one 
or  two  on  each  side;  a  transept;  high  pointed  arches  and 
vauhs;  flying  buttresses  which  prop  these  arches  from  the 
outside;  acute  gables,  pinnacles,  towers,  spires.  Also 
great  windows  filled  with  richly  colored  glass,  and 
divided  with  stone  traceries.  Not  all  these  elements  are 
found  in  every  example  of  good  Gothic,  but  all  of  them 
are  proper  to  the  largest  churches  of  the  fully  developed 
style.  A  definition  of  Gothic  is  given  by  Moore  (fol- 
lowing Viollet-le-Duc)  as  follows:^ 

"The  whole  scheme  of  the  building  is  determined  by, 
and  its  whole  strength  is  made  to  reside  in,  a  finely  organ- 
ized and  frankly  confessed  framework  rather  than  in 
wall.  This  framework,  made  up  of  piers,  arches,  and 
buttresses,  is  freed  from  every  unnecessary  encumbrance 
of  wall,  and  is  rendered  as  light  in  all  its  parts  as  is 
compatible  with  strength  —  the  stability  of  the  fabric 
depending   not   upon   inert   massiveness    (except   in  the 

*  "  Development  and  Character  of  Gothic  Architecture." 


GOTHIC  21 T 

outermost  abutments),  but  upon  a  logical  adjustment 
of  active  parts  whose  opposing  forces  neutralize  each 
other  and  produce  a  perfect  equilibrium.  It  is  a 
system  of  balanced  thrusts  in  contradistinction  to  the 
ancient  system  of  inert  stability." 

This  account  of  the  structural  idea  of  Gothic  may  be 
supplemented  by  Ruskin's  characterization  of  the  "spirit- 
ual meanings"  of  Gothic.  It  is  savage  and  rude,  and  in 
this  ruggedness  and  lack  of  perfect  finish  he  finds  the 
sign  of  its  vitality.  It  shows  variety  and  love  of  change; 
for  its  ornamental  detail  is  never  exactly  repeated  or 
precisely  balanced  as  in  classic  art;  moreover  the  pointed 
arch  is  capable  of  greater  variation  than  the  lintel  or  the 
round  arch.  Next  he  mentions  the  love  of  nature  as 
displayed  in  the  lavish  use  of  flowers  and  foliage  forms 
in  traceries  and  carvings.  Again  there  is  the  element 
of  grotesqueness,  exemplified  in  the  figures  of  gargoyles, 
imps  and  monsters.  As  a  fifth  point  he  speaks  of  a  cer- 
tain rigidity  or  elastic  tension;  "Gothic  ornament  stands 
out  in  prickly  independence,  and  frosty  fortitude  .  .  . 
never  for  an  instant  languid,  always  quickset;  erring,  if 
at  all,  ever  on  the  side  of  brusqueric."  Finally,  he  finds  a 
significance  in  the  redundance  or  lavishness  of  ornament 
and  detail,  a  kind  of  anxiousness  to  please  which  is  in 
strong  contrast  with  the  "haughty"  simplicity  of  Greek 
architecture. 

The  mood  associated  with  a  Gothic  cathedral  may 
be  compared  to  the  consciousness  of  the  ascetic  who 
through  renunciation  of  physical  comfort  attains  a  beau- 
tiful vision.  Out  of  the  coldness  and  grayness  of  the  stone, 
the  gloom  of  vistas  and  shadows,  the  long  tenuous  lines 


212  ARCHITECTURE 

of  the  vaulting  carry  one  up  to  the  glowing  medley  of 
color  in  the  clerestory.  The  impression  is  at  once  more 
harsh  and  more  tender  than  that  of  the  Greek  temple. 
The  buildings  are  as  different  as  are  the  temperaments 
and  the  religions  which  they  represent. 

Reading  References 

Ruskin:   "Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,"  "Stones  of  Venice," 
and  "  The  Poetry  of  Architecture." 
Lubke:  "History  of  Art." 

Moore:   "Gothic  Architecture"  and  "Renaissance  Architecture." 
Statham:   "Architecture  for  General  Readers." 
Fletcher  and  Fletcher:    "  History  of  Architecture." 
Sturgis:   "How  to  Judge  Architecture." 


CHAPTER    XII 
SCULPTURE 

The  problem  of  the  artist,  as  we  have  seen,  is  to  work 
out  some  image  or  form  which  will  objectify  his  emotion 
and  communicate  it  to  others.  The  exact  configuration 
of  the  finished  work  of  art  depends  upon  the  onginaL 
feeling,  but  also  upon  the  material  medium  through  which 
the  artist  wishes  to  express  it,  and  the  limits  which  the 
medium  imposes  upon  his  imagination.  The  feeling 
and  the  medium  modify  each  other,  and  the  final  form 
of  the  work  is  an  adjustment  between  these  two.  It  is 
well  to  keep  this  in  mind  at  the  outset  of  every  discussion 
of  a  special  field  of  art.  The  medium  of  the  sculptor  is 
the  human  form  (sometimes  also  animal  forms)  repre- 
sented in  some  enduring  material  like  marble  or  bronze. 

Relationship  to  the  Dance.  Sculpture  has  this  in 
common  with  the  art  of  dancing  —  that  its  chief  vehicle 
of  expression  is  the  human  figure.  These  two  are,  in 
this  respect,  the  best  fitted  of  all  the  arts  to  deal  with  the 
physiological  aspect  of  emotion;  they  do  not  portray 
sorrow  by  somber  colors  or  low  tones,  but  by  the  actual 
appearance  of  the  sufferer  —  the  bowed  head,  relaxed 
muscles,  dejected  form.  A  study  of  the  dan-ce  ought  to 
be  full  of  suggestion  for  the  sculptor,  and,  indeed,  the 
ancient  Greek  and  Roman  artists  sought  very  much 
after  the  dancers  of  their  day  to  use  them  for  models,  and 
to  represent  them  in  characteristic  attitudes  of  the  dance, 

213 


214  SCULPTURE 

The  rules  which  govern  the  artistic  presentation  of  the 
real  human  body  must  have  validity,  though  of  course 
with  some  modifications,  for  the  sculptured  body.     Thus 
the  principle  of  opposition,  or  the  proper  balance  of  parts, 
is  as  important  a  rule  in  sculpture  as  in  the  dance.     The 
points  on  which  sculpture  differs  from  the  dance   are 
partly  a  limit  to  its  expressiveness,  and  partly  an  opportu- 
nity.     Dancing   consists   of   movements    as   well   as   of 
attitudes  or  arabesques,  but  it  is  only  the  latter  which 
the  art  of  sculpture  is  able  to  render.     It  is  true  that  in- 
directly, that  is,  by  suggestion,  some  idea  of  movement  is 
conveyed  by  a  statue,  some  play  of  rhythm  in  its  lines,  but 
the  impression  lacks  the  intensity  and  vivacity  of  an  actual 
movement  executed  by  a  dancer.     On  the  other  hand,  the 
statue  is  capable  of  more  simplification  and  abstraction 
and  of  certain  artistic  exaggerations  which  are  impos- 
sible to  the  living  form.     A  rough-hewn  statue  sometimes 
gains  in  power  by  its  very  want  of  detail;  and  again,  a 
pose  pushed  slightly  beyond  the  natural,  or  an  idealized 
muscular  development,  may  make  a  statue  more  telling 
than  the  living  form  would  be.     The  sculptor  may  exag- 
gerate or  may  eliminate;  that  is,  he  has  to  his  hand  the 
human  form  in  various  poses,  with  license  to  alter  where 
he  wishes. 

Early  Uses  of  Sculpture.  Sculpture  rose  out  of  cer- 
tain specific  practices,  and  only  in  its  maturer  development 
became  the  expression  of  generalized  emotional  situations. 
Among  the  Egyptians  there  was  an  exceptional  impetus 
to  the  production  of  portrait  sculpture — an  impetus  con- 
nected with  religious  beliefs.  The  Egyptians  believed 
that  every  man  had  a  soul  or  "double"  of  himself  which 


EARLY    USES    OF   SCULPTURE  21 5 

left  the  body  at  death,  but  would  rejoin  it  again  at  the 
resurrection.  Meantime,  however,  the  soul  must  have 
a  resting-place.  An  image  of  the  deceased  person  was 
accordingly  made  for  its  habitation,  and  the  soul  was 
supposed  to  reside  in  the  image  or  likeness.  Such  a 
belief  would  tend  to  keep  sculpture  realistic.  Among 
the  Assyrians  and  Babylonians  a  prevailing  use  for  sculp- 
tured works  was  the  commemoration  and  glorification  of 
the  deeds  of  the  king.  Long  processions  of  triumph,  and 
pictured  accounts  of  the  king  fighting,  the  king  hunting, 
the  king  receiving  homage,  were  chiseled  on  the  palace 
walls.  Hence  the  condition  of  sculpture  with  the  Asiat- 
ics also  tended  to  emphasize  the  imitative  rather  than 
the  ideal  side  of  the  art.  The  same  thing  was  true  of 
the  Romans  of  a  later  day,  who  cared  more  for  the  literal 
commemoration  of  events,  and  for  the  portrait  likenesses 
of  great  men,  than  they  did  for  a  more  abstract  and  typi- 
cal art.  Among  the  Greeks  it  was  a  different  case. 
Their  genius  preferred  the  abstract  and  typical  to  the 
realistic  and  individual  forms.  For  example,  the  com- 
memoration of  victory  did  not,  with  them,  take  the  form 
of  a  portrait  group  in  which  their  leader  was  shown  in 
some  actual  moment  of  striking  down  his  foe;  but  they 
rather  celebrated  it  in  the  figure  of  a  winged  woman,  with 
triumphant  lines  and  victorious  pose.  Such  a  figure  is 
more  abstract,  since  it  represents  one  person  instead  of  a 
whole  battle  scene,  and  since  it  represents  not  merely  one 
victory,  but  victory  in  general.  At  the  same  time  such  a 
figure  stimulates  the  emotion  of  triumph  more  knowingly 
than  any  photograph  of  a  battle  would  do.  The  firm 
forward-moving   torso   with    its   buoyant    lines  tends  to 


2l6  SCULPTURE 

induce  the  like  attitude  in  tlie  spectator  and  hence  to 
arouse  the  sense  of  power.  Thus  when  sculpture  be- 
comes freed  from  the  necessity  of  literal  copying  it  be- 
comes generalized,  and  more  forceful  emotionally.  It 
then  becomes  art  in  the  full  sense. 

The  Sculpturesque  Subject:  The  "  Laocoon  "  Quoted. 
Out  of  all  the  possible  human  attitudes  which  indicate 
feeling,  some  must  be  rejected  as  unsuited  for  the  sculp- 
tor's purpose.  The  discussion  of  this  point  as  a  question 
of  esthetics  was  first  begun  by  Lessing.  Lessing's 
Laocoon,  though  "an  essay  upon  the  limits  of  painting 
and  poetry,"  takes  a  sculptured  work — the  Laocoon— as 
its  point  of  approach,  and  includes  valuable  criticism 
on  the  art  of  sculpture.  This  essay  is  an  important  one 
in  the  history  of  esthetics;  it  was  a  protest  against  the 
medieval  regard  for  spiritual  expression  at  the  expense  of 
form.  Lessing  pointed  out  that  if  sculpture  is  to  be  the 
medium  of  expression,  it  in  turn  may  claim  some  regard  and 
some  concessions  to  its  own  peculiar  character.  The 
limits  imposed  by  sculpture  are  indicated  in  the  following 
quotations:  "All  phenomena,  whose  nature  it  is  suddenly 
to  break  out  and  as  suddenly  to  disappear,  which  can 
remain  as  they  are  but  for  a  moment;  all  such  phenomena, 
whether  agreeable  or  otherwise,  acquire  through  the 
perpetuity  conferred  upon  them  by  art  such  an  unnatural 
appearance,  that  the  impression  they  produce  becomes 
weaker  with  every  fresh  observation,  till  the  whole  subject 
at  last  wearies  or  disgusts  us."  It  is  proper  to  put  into 
statues,  he  thinks,  only  the  moments  which  can  be  natu- 
rally felt  as  enduring.  Violent  passion  is  transitory, 
hence  for  sculpture  it  must  be  modified  or  altogether  re- 


THE   SCULPTOR'S   SUBJECT  21/ 

jected.  He  says,  further,  of  the  Greeks:  "  Rage  and 
despair  disfigured  none  of  their  works.  .  .  ,  Wrath  they 
tempered  into  severity.  .  .  .  Anguish  was  softened  into 
sadness."  (In  this  statement  Lessing  is  borne  out  by 
Darwin's  analysis  of  the  accuracy  of  emotional  portrayal 
by  artists.)  This  toning  down  of  the  subject-matter  to 
suit  the  character  of  the  medium  is  artistically  most 
proper.  There  is  obviously  some  room,  however,  for 
difference  of  opinion,  when  it  comes  to  applying  the 
principle,  in  deciding  just  what  degree  of  emotional  ex- 
pression is  sufficiently  restrained  for  purposes  of  art. 
There  was  a  tendency,  perhaps  in  Michelangelo  himself, 
certainly  in  some  of  his  successors,  to  choose  for  their 
representations  moments  of  too  dramatic  quality.  A 
notable  instance  occurs  in  Bernini's  "Apollo  and  Daphne." 
The  flying  nymph  and  the  pursuing  god  are  shown  at  the 
most  breathless  and  fleeting  moment  of  their  story;  but 
when  we  see  that  instant  lengthen  out,  and  consider  that 
it  will  last  just  so  forever,  they  begin  to  look  unconvincing 
and  a  little  silly,  in  spite  of  their  lovely  lines.  When,  on 
the  contrary,  a  sculptor  chooses  a  mood  and  an  attitude 
which  might  naturally  be  maintained  for  some  time,  he 
is  choosing  a  subject  peculiarly  in  harmony  with  the 
enduring  medium  in  which  he  works.  Donatello's  "  St. 
John,'  Michelangelo's  "Lorenzo  de  Medici,"  and  Rodin's 
"  Penseur  "  are  statues  which  only  gain  in  mystery  and 
strength  by  their  persistent  stillness  and  eternal  power  of 
contemplation. 

The  Sensory  Stimulus  Given  by  Sculpture.  The  sculp- 
tor's block  is  a  solid  substance  with  a[)preciablc  extent 
in  three  dimensions.     By  cutting  parts  of  the  surface  at 


2l8  SCULPTURE 

different  depths  he  creates  a  light  and  shade  pattern  —  an 
effect  which  might  be  rendered  on  a  flat  surface  by  vary- 
ing tones  of  paint.  Just  here  the  question  arises  whether 
there  should  be  any  difference  in  the  type  of  sense- 
impression  stimulated  by  a  flat  painted  surface  and  that 
stimulated  by  substance  which  actually  extends  back 
in  the  third  dimension.  The  possible  difference  is  that 
with  a  three-dimensional  object  the  near  and  far  points 
may  require  changes  in  the  focus  of  the  eye.  If  we 
stand  close  up  to  a  sculptured  group  which  has  great 
depth,  we  find  that  the  muscles  of  accommodation  must 
be  brought  into  play  in  seeing  the  different  parts  of  the 
group.  We  have  to  make  many  changes  of  focus.  (This 
is  true,  of  course,  whether  we  look  with  one  eye  or  both.) 
Now,  according  to  Hildebrand,  an  artistic  work  will  not 
require  of  us  this  shifting  between  far  and  near  accommo- 
dation; but  it  will  give  itself  to  us  as  a  whole,  as  if  it  were 
in  a  single  plane.  When  wc  stand  off  at  some  distance 
from  a  group  of  objects  we  no  longer  feel  the  strain  of 
varying  accommodation,  for  the  whole  group  flattens 
itself  out  into  a  single  plane,  the  two  eyes  get  the  same 
kind  of  image  (not  different  images,  as  in  near  vision  or  in 
stereoscopic  vision),  and  we  have  a  simplified  and  unified 
visual  impression  which  Hildebrand  calls  the  distance- 
image  (Fernbild).  Every  plastic  art-work  should  give  this 
impression.  Now  this  is  not  at  all  equivalent  to  saying 
that  sculpture  should  get  rid  of  the  third  dimension;  for 
it  is  the  very  business  of  sculpture  to  render  three  dimen- 
sions; but  it  should  stimulate  the  idea  of  depth  without 
necessitating  an  actual  change  in  the  muscles  of  accom- 
modation.    In  the  next  paragraph  we  shall  come  to  an- 


SENSORY   STIMULUS    OF   SCULPTURE  219 

other  phase  of  Hildebrand's  theory,  but  in  the  meantime 
we  must  ask  whether  the  visual  elements  of  a  sculptured 
work  are  the  whole  of  its  sensory  content.  So  far  as 
direct  stimulation  of  sense-organs  is  concerned,  there 
certainly  is  nothing  beyond  the  visual  elements;  for 
statues  are  not  meant  to  be  really  touched.  Our'  con- 
ceptions of  substance  and  surface,  however,  arc  insep- 
arably allied  with  other  experiences  besides  the  purely 
visual,  namely,  experiences  of  touch,  pressure  and  move- 
ment. When  we  see  a  graded  surface  or  some  factually 
interesting  substance,  the  imagery  of  touching  and  mov- 
ing over  it  is  suggested,  sometimes,  so  strongly  that 
incipient  movements  are  really  made.  Whatever  one's 
theory  of  space-perception  may  be,  whether  one  believes 
that  space  is  perceived  as  an  ultimate  fact  of  immediate 
experience,  or  thinks  that  it  is  known  as  a  compound 
or  fused  result  of  many  experiences  of  touch  and  move- 
ment, there  is  no  doubt  that  these  latter  sensations  do 
greatly  enliven  the  notion  of  space.  If  a  person  passes 
his  hand  over  the  contour  of  an  object,  strokes,  presses, 
and  lifts  it,  his  perception  of  its  volume  and  form  is,  to 
say  the  least,  enhanced  by  the  performance.  So,  too, 
the  emptiness  of  a  given  space,  the  roominess  of  a  room, 
are  more  realized  if  one  does  actually  circulate  about  and 
experience  the  freedom  of  movement  thus  afforded.  If, 
therefore,  a  statue  or  a  picture  does  stimulate  the  memor;^ 
of  such  sensations,  it  is  doing  something  toward  the 
adequate  representation  of  volume  and  extent.  And  cer- 
tainly whatever  solicits  free  movement  or  is  inviting  to  the 
touch  is  so  much  the  more  absorbing  in  a  sensory  way  to 
the  subject  of  the  experience. 


220  SCULPTURE 

Sculpture     Should    Give    Unified    Space    Impressions. 

Hildebrand's  theory  of  plastic  form  consists,  in  brief, 
in  applying  the  conception  of  "relief"  to  all  kinds  of 
plastic  composition.  Good  relief  sculpture  conveys  at 
once  the  idea  of  figures  in  a  unified  plane  or  "  single  layer 
of  space."  Sculpture  in  the  round  (and  painting  too,  he 
says)  should  give  the  impression  of  such  layers,  Hilde- 
brand  writes:  ^ 

"Considering, now, a  picture  as  a  group  of  parts  which 
illustrate  objects  in  dift'erent  distances,  it  is  evident  that 
these  distances  and  the  entire  depth  of  the  picture  will  be 
more  clearly  expressed,  and  more  easily  conceived  when 
the  objects  are  placed  in  few  planes,  and  when  the  dis- 
tances between  these  planes  are  relatively  great.  Each 
plane  must  be  simplified  as  much  as  possible,  so  that 
our  feeling  for  the  third  dimension  may  be  stimulated 
through  striking  contrasts  afforded  by  these  planes." 
And  again: 

"Our  concern  is,  that  the  figure  in  each  of  its  aspects 
shall  excite  the  idea  of  a  layer  of  space,  and  at  the  same 
time  describe  a  total  space  clearly  possessing  unity  of 
plane." 

Quite  in  the  spirit  of  this  theory  is  the  idea  very 
generally  expressed  by  artists  that  a  sculptured  group 
should  strongly  suggest  a  simple  geometrical  form  as  its 
limiting  space.  Michelangelo's  remark  that  a  statue 
ought  to  look  as  well  as  ever  after  it  had  been  rolled  down 
hill  is  a  way  of  saying  that  the  form  must  be  simple  and 
compact.  Rodin  has  said  that  the  sculptured  work,  as  a 
whole,  should  show  its  relation  to  some  "natural"  form 

'  "The  Problem  of  Form,"  trans.  Meyer  and  Ogden. 


RELATIONSHIP   TO    ARCHITECTURE  221 

like  the  square  or  triangle.  McColl  writes  of  one  of 
Rodin's  statues:  "He  fashioned  a  block  simple  at  a 
distance  as  a  menhir.  .  .  etc." 

This,  then,  is  the  fundamental  thing  demanded  of  a 
plastic  work  as  plastic,  that  it  give  the  spectator  a  simple, 
clear,  unified,  spatial  perception. 

Relationship    to    Architecture.     Another  technical  re- 
quirement of  sculpture  is  that  it  shall  compose  well  with  its 
architectural  setting.     The  lines  of  the  composition  will 
be  governed  to  some  degree  by  the  position  of  the  figure 
and  the  character  of  the  building  in  which  it  is  placed. 
This  adaptation  of  the  sculptured  form  to  its  enclosing 
lines  was  first  developed  as  a  general  principle  by  the 
Greeks.     Such  adaptation  is  not  generally  characteristic 
of   ancient  art.     But  among   the    Greeks   many   of  the 
best  works  were  made   for  the   adornment  of  temples, 
and    this    architectural    position    regulated    rigidly    the 
composition  of  groups  and  the  pose  of  single  figures.     On 
the  pediment  of  a  temple,  the  bounding  lines  being  those 
of  a  low  triangle,  the  central  figures  must  be  made  to  stand 
well  up,  while  the  end  figures  must  be  sitting  or  lying 
down.     Again,  on  the  Greek  friezes  it  was  the  practice  to 
follow  the  principle  of  isocephaly,  that  is,  to  level  up  the 
successive  figures  by  one  means  or  another  so  that  all 
their  heads  should  be  a])proximately  on  the  same  line. 
If  there  were  some  seated  persons  in  the  composition 
they  were  enough  enlarged  to  bring  their  heads  up  to 
the  right  height,  and  this  did  away  with  the  unsightly 
gaps  which  would  otherwise  have  appeared  in  the  line. 
In  the  Parthenon  frieze  the  horses  have  been  reduced 
in  size  in  order  that  they  might  come  within  tlie  hmits  of 


222  SCULPTURE 

the  composition.  Medieval  sculpture  illustrates  fully 
as  well  as  the  Greek,  in  some  cases  better,  the  principle 
of  adaptation.  The  figures  which  occupy  Gothic  niches 
are  conventionalized  into  harmony  with  the  long  hungry 
lines  which  prevail  throughout  the  Gothic  edifice.  But 
their  strict  lines  and  constrained  postures  are  not  incom- 
patible with,  are  perhaps  even  the  occasion  of,  that 
repressed  and  eager  grace  which  is  the  charm  of  some 
medieval  sculpture. 

The  spaces  usually  filled  by  sculptured  figures  are 
simple  and  abstract  forms  determined  by  the  lines  of  the 
building;  such  are  the  triangle  of  the  pediment,  the 
square  of  the  metope,  the  long  band  of  the  frieze,  up- 
right panels  and  niches  of  various  proportions.  So 
important  are  such  boundary  lines  felt  to  be  by  the 
artist  that  a  composition,  even  when  it  is  not  destined 
for  a  particular  position,  is  nevertheless  ruled,  as  we 
have  just  seen,  by  some  such  geometrical  figure  as 
architectural  problems  would  generate.  Designers  choose 
a  limiting  conception,  like  the  triangle  or  square,  and 
then  model  within  its  confines,  and  thus  good  composition 
is  governed  by  architectural  lines  whether  these  are 
literally  present  or  are  simply  imagined. 

Sculpture  as  Objectified  Emotion.  The  sculptor  has 
not  merely  to  fill  spaces,  but  to  fill  them  with  human 
forms,  and  this  gives  him  a  special  opportunity  for  objec- 
tifying emotion.  A  statue  being  permanent,  and  being, 
as  a  rule,  a  fairly  literal  representation  of  the  human 
figure,  is  well  suited  to  fix  concretely  and  exactly  the 
outward  signs  of  emotional  reactions.  Music  and  pure 
design  also,  of  course,  express  feelings,  but  not  in  the 


EMOTIONAL   EXPRESSION 


223 


way  that  sculpture  does;  for,  although  they  give  motor 
suggestions,  yet  a  sculptured  human  figure  offers  a  more 
literal  model,  and  hence  a  stronger  temptation  to  imita- 
tive reproduction  on  the  part  of  the  spectator.  Kulpe 
found  S  on  showing  a  series  of  lantern  slides,  some  of 
architectural  works  and  some  of  sculptured  figures,  that 
only  with  the  pictures  of  the  human  form  did  his  subjects 
notice  in  themselves  a  tendency  towards  imitative  poses. 
A  proper  approach  to  the  study  of  sculpture  would 
be  the  scientific    study  of    bodily  attitudes   and   facial 


Figs,  30a  and  b. 

changes  incident  to  emotion;  one  must  know  v/hat  the 
actual  signs  of  emotion  are  before  one  can  fully  under- 
stand or  appreciate  what  the  artist  has  done.  One 
may  of  course  '"feel"  the  accuracy  of  a  representation, 
but  one  cannot  know  it  without  a  knowledge  of  actual 
emotional  appearances.  The  accompanying  figures  will 
illustrate  one  parallel  between  the  observation  of  a  scien- 
tific men  and  the  practice  of  artists.  Figs.  3C)a  and  b  are 
copied  from  Darwin.  The  first  shows  a  dog  approach- 
ing another  dog  with  "hostile  intentions";  the  second 
shows  the  same  dog  in   a  "humble   and   ailectionale" 


*  Am.  Journ.  xiv  "  Experimentelle  ^sthetik." 


224 


SCULPTURE 


frame  of  mind.  Though  the  emotions  do  belong  to  a  dog 
we  can  easily  appreciate  that  the  crisp  rigid  attitude  with 
its  straight  lines  stands  for  something  very  diilerent 
from  the  feeling  indicated  by  the  bending  sinuous  one. 
An  analogous  contrast  between  straight  lines  and  curves 
appears  in  these  three  figures  (a)  Athene,  (b)  Aphrodite, 
and    (c)    Niobe.      The  feeling   expressed   by    Athene   is 


Figs.  40a,  b,  and  c. 


not  hostile,  but  it  is  strong  and  self-reliant  and  aloof. 
The  attitude  of  Aphrodite  is  less  severe  and  more  con- 
ciliatory, while  the  attitude  of  Niobe,  the  most  curved  of 
the  three,  expresses  pity  for  her  child  and  entreaty  to 
the  gods. 

The  figure  of  Niobe  also  illustrates  particularly  well 
the  idea  that  emotion  represents  a  conflict  of  impulses. 
Two  distinct  reactions  are  apparent;  she  has  the  impulse 
to  bend  over  her  child  to  shelter  and  defend  her,  but  at 
the  same  time  the  impulse  to  lift  herself  up  in  supplication. 
Her  posture  is  a  struggle  to  combine  the  two  tendencies. 
Theoretically  we  should  be  able  to  trace  in  every  statue, 


REPOSE    OF   STATUES  22  5 

which  clearly  expresses  emotion,  some  mark  of  opposing 
tendencies,  and  this  is  certainly  quite  possible  in  many 
cases.  Striking  examples,  other  than  the  Niobe,  are  the 
Marsyas  who  steps  forward,  but  at  the  same  instant  also 
starts  back,  thus  expressing  the  sense  of  check  and  aston- 
ishment, the  Moses  of  Michelangelo  restraining  himself 
from  action,  and  hence  vibrating  with  opposed  impulses, 
the  Laocoon  half  yielding,  with  head  thrown  back,  to  the 
irresistible  coils  of  the  serpent,  and  yet  after  all  resisting 
them.  Attitudes  which  reveal  such  contrasted  impulses 
are  the  ones  fitted  to  objectify  emotion. 

Repose.  It  should  not  be  forgotten  that  the  sculp- 
tor, though  depicting  strong  emotion,  must  ever  consider 
the  demands  of  repose  and  dignity.  Lessing,  Winckel- 
mann  and  others  have  rightly  insisted  upon  a  certain 
serenity  of  repose  which  characterized  the  work  of  the 
best  Greek  period.  But  the  term  "repose"  must  not  be 
understood  in  too  limited  a  sense.  It  does  not  mean 
inertia;  for  the  complete  relaxation  of  sleep  would  give  us 
that,  and  it  is  far  from  the  ideal  of  statuesque  repose. 
On  the  contrary  the  repose  of  some  Greek  figures  is  not 
incompatible  with  very  vigorous  bodily  action.  Pater 
writes  as  follows  of  an  athletic  figure:^ 

"  It  was  as  if  a  blast  of  cool  wind  had  congealed  the 
metal,  or  the  living  youth,  fixed  him  impcrishably  in  that 
moment  of  rest  which  lies  between  two  opposed  motions, 
the  backward  swing  of  the  right  arm,  the  movement 
forwards  on  which  the  left  foot  is  in  the  very  act  of  starting. 
The  matter  of  the  thing,  the  stately  bronze  or  marble,  thus 
rests  indeed;  but  the  artistic  form  of  it,  in  truth,  scarcely 

'  "Greek  Studies." 


226  SCULPTURE 

more,  even  to  the  eye,  than  the  rolling  ball  or  disk  may 
be  said  to  rest,  at  every  moment  of  its  course — just 
metaphysically,  you  know." 

In  many  of  the  Greek  figures,  as  in  the  metopes  of 
the  Parthenon  or  the  Thescum,  the  action  represents 
animated,  even  desperate,  combat.  He'-e,  too,  the  only 
repose  is  a  kind  of  balance  between  contrary  motions. 
"  Poise,"  indeed,  and  "control "  seem  to  be  better  terms 
than  "repose  "  for  indicating  the  characteristic  quality  of 
Greek  works. 

"  Dignity"  is  another  term  which  is  open  to  miscon- 
ception. A  quiet  standing  position  was  very  often 
chosen  by  the  Greeks  for  their  statues,  and  this  is  usually 
dignified  and  perhaps  artistically  best.  But  at  the  same 
time  is  should  be  remembered  that  marble  figures  cannot 
support  themselves  in  very  light,  free  positions.  The 
problem  of  propping  up  the  arms  and  legs  without 
destroying  the  beauty  of  the  composition  is  a  hard  one, 
and  this  technical  difficulty  may  have  been  one  reason 
for  limiting  marble  figures  to  the  less  adventurous  poses. 
With  stronger  material,  as  bronze,  and  with  work  in 
relief  where  the  background  gives  support,  this  difiiculty 
disappears  and  greater  freedom  of  action  may  be  and  is 
introduced.  Dignity  is  perfectly  consistent  with  a  great 
variety  of  positions,  and  does  not  consist  in  being  perpen- 
dicular. Dignity,  as  the  word  implies,  means  w,oilli  or 
_:value,  and  a  figure  which  in  any  way  shows  streng^th  or 
control  is  to  that  extent  worthy  and  dignified.  Repose 
and  dignity,  then,  we  may  accept  as  esthetic  categories 
if  we  understand  that  they  signify  not  inertia  or  rigidity, 
but  rather  balance,  control  and  strength. 


SCULPTURE  227 

Reading  References. 

Lessing:   "  Laocoon." 

Hildebrand:  "The  Problem  of  Fo'm,"  trans.  Meyer  and 
Ogden. 

Marquand  and  Frothingham:  "A  Text-book  of  the  History 
of  Sculpture." 

Tarbell:   "A  History  of  Greek  Art." 

VON  Mach:   "A  Hand-book  of  Greek  and  Roman  Sculpture." 

Brown:   "  The  Fine  Arts." 

Sturgis:    "The  Appreciation  of  Sculpture." 


CHAPTER    XIII 
PAINTING 

Painting  Compared  with  Sculpture.  A  certain  logical 
simplicity  is  demanded  in  round  sculpture  by  the  fact 
that  the  products  of  this  art  are  to  be  looked  at  from 
many  points  of  view.  They  presuppose  a  movable 
spectator  and  hence  an  indefinite  number  of  observation 
points,  and  hence,  again,  a  successive  rather  than  a  simul- 
taneous grasp  of  the  whole  composition.  A  logical  sim- 
plicity in  this  connection  would  mean  that  the  different 
views  were  so  related  that  one  seems  clearly  to  "follow" 
from  another,  and  that  there  are  some  limitations  imposed 
on  the  composition  by  the  fact  that  it  is  to  be  seen  in 
other  views.  With  painting  the  case  is  different.  It  ex- 
tends in  but  two  dimensions  and  so  presupposes  only  one 
point  of  observation  for  the  spectator;  the  spectator  sup- 
posedly stands  in  front  of  the  canvas  and  sees  the  picture 
as  a  whole.  One  result  of  this  difference  is  the  greater 
necessity  for  variety  and  action  within  the  painted  com- 
position. The  painting  has  but  one  face  to  show,  and 
this,  therefore,  must  satisfy  the  desire  for  variety  and 
movement.  The  forms  of  sculpture  Vkhich  approach 
more  nearly  the  condition  of  painting,  namely,  low  relief 
and  intaglio,  show  greater  variety  and  vigor  of  action. 
This  is  due  in  part  to  technical  considerations  (p.  226), 
but  perhaps  also  in  part  to  the  reason  just  given. 

A  second  important  difference  between  sculpture  and 

228 


SCULPTURE   AND   PAINTING  229 

painting  is  the  absence,  or  at  least  the  complete  subor- 
dination, of  background,  atmosphere,  and  perspective 
in  sculpture.  Occasionally  a  sculptured  work,  like 
Ghiberti's  bronze  doors,  makes  much  of  perspective  and 
background,  but  this  is  exceptional.  This  difference 
results  in  the  greatest  changes  in  the  composition  of 
painted  as  against  sculptured  groups.  Thus  the  flying 
figures  in  Tintoretto's  "  Marriage  of  Bacchus  and 
Ariadne,"  and  the  "Origin  of  the  Milky  Way"  make  the 
most  delightful  patterns  in  these  two  compositions;  but 
these  very  figures  sculptured  in  the  round,  and  hence  with 
no  atmosphere  to  support  them,  would  look  entirely  too 
precarious  for  the  comfort  and  pleasure  of  the  spectator. 
Then,  too,  it  will  be  remembered  that  a  vista  in  painting 
is  an  element  of  unity,  and  can  be  relied  upon  to  bind 
scattered  items  together.  In  sculpture,  where  this  ele- 
ment is  lacking,  there  is  need  for  closely  unified  group- 
ing, and  the  unifying  lines  must  be  found  in  the  figures 
themselves;  whereas  in  painting,  thanks  to  the  vista,  as 
well  as  other  features  of  background  and  atmosphere,  the 
figures  may  be  more  freely  disposed.  In  sculpture  we 
may  say  that  we  get  the  person,  the  actor,  almost  wholly 
abstracted  from  his  environment,  and  that  we  must  con- 
struct the  environment  ideally.  In  painting,  on  the  con- 
trary, much  more  is  made  of  circumstance  and  situation, 
and  in  pure  landscape  we  have  natural  environment 
given  with  the  person  left  out  to  be  ideally  constructed 
or  felt  if  we  like. 

Finally,  in  modern  times,  there  is  the  great  difference 
made  by  color — modern,  unlike  ancient  sculpture,  being 
uncolored.      This  fact  of  color  reacts  also  upon  space- 


230  PAINTING 

composition.  We  saw  above  that  painting,  because  of  its 
backgrounds,  may  show  its  figures  more  widely  scattered. 
It  is  also  true  that  painting  may  adequately  show  a  more 
crowded  grouping  than  sculpture  could  successfully  do, 
and  this  because  one  figure  may  be  clearly  detached  from 
another  by  its  different  color,  even  though  in  line  they 
are  intricately  engaged. 

Limits  of  Light  and  Color.  The  painter  who  wants  to 
represent  any  out-of-door  scene  finds  that  he  has  a 
limited  palette  or  scale  of  colors  with  which  to  accomplish 
his  purpose.  To  the  accurate  portrayal  of  nature  in  all 
its  phases  the  artist  would  need  to  bring  a  scale  in  which 
the  highest  light  was  as  bright  as  the  sun,  and  the  deepest 
shade  as  dark  as  a  subterranean  cave.  Obviously  the 
painter's  white  and  black  are  but  feeble  suggestions  of 
such  wide-apart  limits  as  nature  shows.  Kirschmann 
says  that  the  sky  on  a  gray  day  is  brighter  than  a  white 
painted  cross-bar  seen  against  it  by  four  hundred  twenty 
times,  whereas  the  high  light  of  a  picture  is  never  more 
than  sixty-six  times  as  bright  as  its  deepest  shadow. 
The  painter's  problem  is  to  see  what  he  can  do  with  such 
a  scale  as  he  has.  How  shall  he  translate  so  as  to  represent 
nature  with  an  instrument  of  this  compass?  In  what 
sense  can  he  truthfully  render  what  he  sees?  This 
problem  disappears,  of  course,  if  the  object  to  be  painted 
falls  within  the  gamut  of  the  artist's  pigments;  but  for 
landscape,  or  anything  well  lighted  up,  it  is  an  impor- 
tant one.  Suppose  an  object  has  three  tones  which 
we  may  express  by  the  number  40  for  the  lightest,  30  for 
the  middle  tone,  and  20  for  the  darkest.^     Then  suppose 

'  Cf.  Ruskin:  "  Modern  Painters,"  part  5,  ch.3. 


SCALE   OF   VALUES  23  I 

further  that  the  compass  of  our  palette  lies  between  30 
and  10.  (These  numbers  have  no  absolute  significance 
but  are  simply  illustrative.)  One  possible  method  of 
representing  the  object  would  be  to  paint  it  in  the  three 
tones  represented  by  30,  20,  10,  and  in  so  doing  we  would 
be  keeping  true  to  the  relative  values  of  our  object,  but 
at  the  same  time  we  would  be  painting  them  all  wrong 
in  the  absolute  sense,  since  for  the  real  40  we  use  30,  for 
30,  20,  and  for  20,  10,  this  last  tone  10  being  one  which 
does  not  occur  in  the  real  object  at  all.  Another  way  of 
representing  the  object  would  be  to  use  30  for  the  highest 
tone,  29  for  the  middle,  and  20  for  the  darkest.  In  this 
way  we  would  be  true  to  the  absolute  value  of  the  darkest 
tone  and  nearly  true  to  the  middle  tone,  but  we  should 
have  a  wrong  high  light  and  also  a  wrong  relation  between 
it  and  the  other  two  tones.  Between  these  two  methods 
of  rendering  the  object  a  middle  way  can  be  chosen  which 
will  recognize  to  some  degree  the  claims  of  both.  One 
such  compromise  would  consist  in  painting  the  tones  in 
with  30,  25,  and  20,  thus  keeping  some  semblance  of  the 
relative  values  and  also  keeping  one  tone  absolutely  true. 
These  various  schemes  are  summarized  in  this  way: 

20  =  values  of  the  actual  object. 
10  =  range  of  available  pigments. 
ID  =  scheme  of  relative  values. 
20  =  scheme  of  absolute  values. 
20=  combination  of  (i)  and  (2). 

Ruskin  cites  as  examples  of  these  three  methods  the 
work  of  Rembrandt  for  the  first,  or  relative  scheme, 
Veronese  for  the  second,  and  Turner  for  the  third.  The 
second  method  was  practised  by  the  impressionists.     By 


40 

30 

30 

(l) 

30 

20 

(2) 

30 

29 

(3) 

30 

25 

2  32  PAINTING 

their  new  way  of  blending  colors  by  juxtaposition  (see 
p.  152)  they  were  able  to  raise  their  color  scale  some 
degrees  in  brightness;  in  this  way  they  could  slightly 
increase  the  truth  of  their  tones,  but  this  only  in  shadow. 
McColl  writes:  ^  "The  positive  truth  the  plein-airist  can 
arrive  at  is  limited  to  truth  of  value  in  shadow,  and  by 
every  degree  that  he  lightens  his  shadows  up  to  their 
natural  value  he  must  reduce  the  gap  between  them  and 
the  lights,  till  it  becomes  trifling  in  comparision  with 
the  real  gap. 

"  The  new  painting  of  sunlight,  therefore,  is  a  conven- 
tion like  the  old:  neither  can  render  the  lights  positively; 
the  old  falsified  the  shadows,  making  them  darker  than  in 
nature,  so  as  to  keep  something  of  the  truth  of  contrast 
between  them  and  the  lights;  the  new  threw  away  this 
resource  of  effect  to  gain  a  general  truth  of  brightness  in 
lights  and  shadows  alike,  and  a  positive  truth  of  fair  clear 
color  in  the  shadows." 

Line  and  Mass  Composition,  Some  of  the  most  im- 
portant elements  of  pictorial  composition  have  already 
been  noticed  in  the  discussion  of  design;  they  are,  balance, 


s 


o" 


Fig.  41. 


unity,  and  the  organization  on  the  basis  of  some  simple 
geometrical  figure.  Poore  distinguishes  six  fundamental 
forms  of  composition.  These  are  based  (Fig.  41)  on  the 
triangle,  circle,  cross,  radii,  letter  S,  and  rectangle.  These 
are  really  six  principles  of  unification.     The  triangle  and 

'   "  Nineteenth  Century  Art." 


PURPOSE   OF   PICTURES  233 

circle  show  most  concentration,  the  cross  and  radii  most 
h'fe.  The  letter  S,  or  line  of  grace,  Poore  calls  the  most 
elastic  and  variable.  The  rectangle  is  the  only  unbal- 
anced form  and  it  requires  an  opposed  mass  as  at  x 
(Fig.  41)  to  complete  it.  These  types  of  composition  may 
serve  for  pictures  which  are  limited  to  two  dimensions, 
and  also  for  those  extending  into  the  third.  Thus  the  tri- 
angle may  indicate  a  pyramidal  form  in  the  vertical  plane, 
or  it  may  indicate  a  vista  receding  into  the  distance. 

The  Purpose  of  Pictures.  In  the  middle  ages  painting 
was  fostered  by  the  church  as  an  educational  instrument. 
Most  people  were  unable  to  read,  and  pictures  seemed  a 
convenient  medium  for  impressing  upon  them  the  inci- 
dents of  sacred  history,  or  legends  of  saints  and  martyrs. 
Allegorical  figures  of  virtues  and  vices  and  representations 
of  hell  and  heaven  were  also  considered  good  for  people. 
Painting,  then,  was  encouraged  officially  for  the  sake  of 
some  religious  or  moral  lessen  to  be  taught.  Its  purpose 
was  illustrative  and  narrative.  Later,  with  a  growing 
mastery  over  technique,  interest  in  form  and  color  for  their 
own  sake  began  to  rival  the  interest  in  literary  meanmg, 
and  with  the  spread  of  learning  and  of  methods  of 
communication  the  necessity  for  narrative  meaning  in 
pictures  began  to  disappear.  Furthermore  the  Renais- 
sance favored  the  use  of  pagan  themes  and  models  in  art, 
and  this  tended  to  absolve  painting  from  its  religious 
traditions.  The  convention  of  painting  in  figures  still 
persisted  with  the  old  Italian  masters,  but  different  pur- 
poses began  to  define  themselves.  Figure  painting,  like 
sculpture,  is  able  to  express  feeling  by  showing  the  human 
being  in  the  actual  attitudes  of  emotion,  and  hence  it 


234  PAINTING 

will  always  remain  as  one  method  of  expression  in  paint- 
ing. But  painting  as  it  developed  began  in  some  of  its 
phases  to  make  a  less  literal  type  of  appeal  to  the  emotion 
of  the  spectator,  and  to  arrive  at  its  effects,  not  so  much 
by  representative  means  as  by  relationships  of  color^ 
light^  line,  and  mass  and  the  portrayal  of  other  than 
human  forms.  The  human  form  ceased  always  to  dom- 
inate the  canvas.  The  purpose  of  the  artist  was  still  to 
strike  the  interest  and  stir  the  feeling  of  the  spectator, 
but  whereas  the  medieval  painter  strove  to  convey  a 
rather  specific  meaning,  the  modern  artist  leaves  the 
telling  of  incidents  and  stories  out  and  tries  to  ap- 
peal to  emotions  on  the  basis  of  pure  form  and  color. 
The  meaning  of  the  medieval  pictures  was  particular 
and  narrative,  whereas  the  meaning  of  modern  work  is 
general  and  emotional,  — a  meaning  which  is  intrinsically 
connected  with  colors  and  lines. 

The  "Broad  "  Style.  The  broad  or  grand  style  consists 
in  painting  the  large  or  significant  aspect  of  a  subject, 
and  omitting  the  trivial  and  irrelevant  detail.  One  paints 
the  characteristic  features  —  gives  the  idea  and  refuses  to 
obscure  this  by  petty  additions  and  qualifications.  Paint- 
ing is  often  set  down  as  the  most  imitative  of  the  arts,  but 
in  proportion  as  it  shows  artistic  thought  it  shows  a  work- 
ing away  from  any  literal  or  scientific  intent.  Visual  im- 
pressions come  to  us  ordinarily  in  the  block  and  we  have  to 
do  some  mental  analyzing  and  sculpturing  before  we  can 
disentangle  the  significant  and  artistic  impression.  Paint- 
ing broadly,  is  one  aspect  of  the  attempt  to  paint  meaning 
rather  than  fact,  that  is,  to  paint  a  thing  because  it  is  emo- 
tionally significant  rather  than  because  it  happens  to  exist. 


THE   PORTRAIT  235 

The  Portrait.  It  seems  at  first  thought  as  if  portraiture 
were  a  field  in  which  painting  ought  to  be  exact  in  imitating 
a  model.  Here,  surely,  if  anywhere,  we  want  a  likeness. 
But  what,  then,  do  we  mean  by  a  likeness?  There  are 
many  points  about  the  faces  of  friends  that  we  never  notice 
until  we  look  at  photographs  of  them.  Now  these  points, 
though  in  a  sense  real,  do  not  always  clarify  the  likeness; 
they  rather  tend  oftentimes  to  obscure  it  for  us.  We 
think  the  photograph  wrong,  and  if  we  think  so,  then, 
artistically,  it  is  wrong.  What  we  want  is  not  the  "  real, " 
but  the  characteristic  likeness.  A  face  may  be  charac- 
terized by  a  few  lines,  and  lines  even  which  do  not  actually 
occur  in  the  face  itself.  Certainly  this  is  true  in  carica- 
ture. It  is  even  thinkable  that,  if  characterization  is 
what  we  are  after,  somebody  else's  face  might  be  a  better 
likeness  of  a  man  than  his  own.  Whether  we  arc  ready 
to  credit  that  or  not  we  must  admit  that  in  portrai- 
ture, as  elsewhere  in  art,  it  is  significance  rather  than 
fact  that  is  really  wanted.  Here  another  and  more 
difficult  question  presents  itself.  Just  what  aspect  of 
a  person  is  most  significant?  Is  it  individual  character 
or  typical  character  that  we  really  want?  Greek  art, 
judging  from  its  sculpture,  was  more  occupied  with  the 
typical,  or  even  the  general,  than  with  the  individual.  It 
adopted  facial  conventions  which  it  imposed  even  upon 
portrait  statues;  yet  the  faces  of  Greek  statues  are  not 
wanting  in  character.  Each  one  partakes  of  the  strength 
and  perfection  of  the  general  type.  Japanese  art  is  also 
interested  in  typical,  not  individual,  faces;  and  yet  to  those 
who  are  familiar  with  real  Japanese  faces  the  pictured 
ones  are  said  to  be  full  of  characterization.     That  face 


236  PAINTING 

is  certainly  in  one  sense  most  significant  which  most 
thoroughly  represents  a  class;  it  means  more  than  itself, 
and  introduces  us  to  a  bigger  human  group.  A  person 
who  is  completely  anomalous  or  untypical  does  not 
command  permanent  interest,  but  one  who,  though 
perhaps  surpassing  others,  yet  partakes  of  their  nature, 
is  always  interesting,  Hearn,  writing  about  faces  in 
Japanese  art  says  that  "A  partial  explanation  of  the 
apparent  physiognomical  conventionalism  in  Japanese 
drawing  is  .  .  .  that  law  of  the  subordination  of  individu- 
alism to  type,  of  personality  to  humanity,  of  detail  to 
feeling." 

The  modern  western  mind,  in  accordance  with  its 
different  philosophy,  makes  a  different  demand  in  its 
portraiture.  The  successful  portrait  we  think,  must 
present  a  well-defined  personality,  there  must  be  an 
individual  residuum  in  the  face  which  distinguishes  it 
from  the  type.  It  is  this  personal  and  unknown  element 
which  makes  part  of  the  mystery  and  fascination  of  great 
portraits.  But  we  should  not  make  the  mistake  of  sup- 
posing that  the  purely  individual  face  will  do.  What 
we  want  is  a  face  unique  and  typical  at  the  same  time. 
These  two  things  are  not  at  all  incompatible;  we  have  a 
supreme  example  of  their  combination  in  the  Mona  Lisa. 
Leonardo  had  an  amusing  formula  for  representing  the 
female  type.  "Women,"  he  says,  "are  to  be  represented 
in  modest  and  reserved  attitudes,  with  their  knees  rather 
close,  their  arms  drawing  near  each  other,  or  folded  about 
the  body;  their  heads  looking  downwards  and  leaning  a 
little  on  one  side."  This  seems  a  little  naive  from  the 
painter  of  Mona  Lisa,  and  yet  such  definite  conventions 


LANDSCAPE  237 

have  their  use.  They  are  the  outhnes  of  type  and  the 
occasion  for  individuahty.  With  Mona  Lisa  her  very 
conformity  to  convention  and  to  type  is  one  of  the  things 
that  makes  her  so  subtle  and  so  fascinating. 

Landscape.  From  portraiture  to  landscape  is  a  step 
from  the  most  personal  to  the  most  impersonal  subject 
matter.  In  modern  art,  landscape  is  clearly  differentiated 
as  an  independent  type;  but  in  medieval  and  renaissance 
art  there  was  no  such  separation  of  landscape  from 
portrait  and  figure  painting.  The  cause  for  the  change 
must  be  sought,  in  part  at  least,  in  the  modern  tendency 
towards  specialization,  a  tendency  which  underlies  also 
the  scientific  attitude.  The  scientific  mind  aims  at  an 
exact  record  of  particulars  rather  than  a  comprehensive 
speculation  on  the  universe;  and  the  scientific  tempera- 
ment is  reflected  in  painting  when  the  artist  confines  him- 
self to  some  one  phase  of  nature,  instead  of  putting  every- 
thing on  the  same  canvas.  Art  is  never  scientific  in  the 
sense  of  caring  for  literal  accuracy,  but  it  is  scientific 
in  the  sense  of  being  willing  to  limit  itself  to  some  one 
aspect  of  experience.  The  single  impression,  the  individ- 
ual moment,  fragments  of  experience,  have  an  indepen- 
dent validity  for  the  modern  mind.  Fleeting  appearance 
is  precious,  and  a  glinting  light  on  a  haystack  may  make 
as  significant  a  picture  as  the  everlasting  hills. 

Another  impetus  to  the  development  of  landscape 
painting  may  be  traced  to  the  reaction  against  the  condi- 
tions of  a  crowded  civilization.  For  many  persons  solitude 
is  a  great  want;  they  need  a  refuge  from  human-kind. 
A  good  landscape  has  the  power  to  absorb  tlic  observer 
and  to  unite  him  with  impersonal,  elemental,  and  universal 


238  PAINTING 

things.  It  puts  him  into  a  surrounding  where  social 
convention  has  no  meaning,  and  with  the  loss  of  social 
consciousness  a  large  measure  of  self-consciousness  dis- 
appears. 

The  chief  excellence  of  landscape  lies  in  the  feeling 
which  it  gives  for  atmosphere  and  space.  Figure  painting 
can  show  more  wonderful  line,  pure  design  more  splendid 
color,  but  neither  of  them  can  rival  landscape  in  giving 
heights  and  breadths  and  depths  of  distance.  The  third 
dimension  is  very  important  in  this  kind  of  painting. 
It  is  not  introduced  for  the  sake  of  making  natural 
objects  in  a  picture  look  natural;  one  would  probably 
come  nearer  the  truth  in  saying  that  natural  objects  were 
introduced  for  the  sake  of  rendering  the  third  dimension. 
The  desire  for  the  third  dimension  is  the  desire  for  depth 
and  emptiness  of  space,  not  the  desire  to  realize  the  bulk 
of  objects.  A  treatment  which  makes  an  object  "stand 
out"  from  the  canvas  is  abhorred  by  all  art  critics.  If  we 
want  to  see  things  stand  out  from  their  backgrounds  we 
can  go  to  stereoscopic  pictures,  with  their  unmitigated 
realness,  but  not  to  good  painting.  Lee  and  Thompson 
write  on  this  distinction  as  follows:*  "Whereas  we  ask 
from  painting  for  an  increased  realization  of  distance, 
because  we  enjoy  going  into  the  picture,  we  ask,  on  the 
contrary,  for  a  lesser  realization  of  bulk  than  we  obtain 
normally  when  walking  about.  For  when  we  look  at 
objects  which  we  perceive  to  project  forwards,  we  are 
obliged  to  begin  with  a  sudden  high  inspiration  which  is 
fatiguing,  and  we  therefore  prefer  that  in  pictures  the 
projections  should  be  flattened,  and  that  we  should  be 

'  Op.  cit. 


LANDSCAPE  239 

separated  by  a  sort  of  neutral  space  from  the  objects 
which  would  otherwise  bulge  towards  us.  The  greatest 
pictures  are  always  rather  flattened." 

A  part  of  the  pleasure  which  real  distance  affords  is 
due  to  the  fact  that  the  eye-muscles  are  more  relaxed 
when  accommodated  for  a  distant  scene.  A  part  also  is 
due  to  ideational  elements,  notions  of  openness,  airiness, 
unhindered  movement,  etc.  Thus  our  enjoyment  is  the 
result  both  of  sensation  and  idea.  Now  with  the  painted 
distance  the  pleasure  seems  to  come  from  idea  alone 
(abstracting  of  course  from  the  pleasure  in  pure  color 
and  line),  but  it  would  be  interesting  to  know  what 
part  is  played  by  the  relaxed  accommodation  which  was 
actually  present  in  looking  at  the  real  scene.  It  may  be 
(i)  that  it  plays  no  part  at  all,  (2)  that  it  is  merely 
thought  of  when  we  look  at  the  painting,  or  (3)  it  may 
be  that  the  suggestion  of  distance  tends  to  induce  an 
actual  relaxation  of  the  accommodation  muscles,  and  so  to 
put  the  eyes  out  of  focus  for  the  picture  itself.  This 
would  be  a  problem  for  experimentation. 

The  emotional  effect  of  landscape  is  described  by 
Berenson  as  a  religious  feeling.  He  writes:^  "Space- 
composition  .  .  .  woos  us  away  from  our  tight,  painfully 
limited  selves,  dissolves  us  into  the  space  presented,  until 
at  last  we  seem  to  become  its  permeating,  indwelling 
spirit.  In  other  words,  this  wonderful  art  can  take  us 
away  from  ourselves  and  give  us,  while  we  are  under  its 
spell,  the  feeling  of  being  identified  with  the  universe, 
perhaps  even  of  being  the  soul  of  the  universe  .  .  .  this 
sense  of  identification  with  the  universe  is  of  the  very 

'  "  Central  Italian  Painters  of  the  Renaissance." 


240  PAINTING 

essence  of  the  religious  emotion  .  .  .  The  religious  emo- 
tion ...  is  produced  by  a  feeling  of  identification  with  the 
universe;  this  feeling,  in  its  turn,  can  be  created  by  space- 
composition."  To  this  rendering  of  space,  rather  than 
to  the  figures  themselves,  he  ascribes  the  religious  effec- 
tiveness of  Perugino's  pictures.  Whether  one  would  de- 
scribe the  appreciation  of  landscape  beauty  as  religious 
in  quality  depends,  we  may  suppose,  upon  the  obser- 
ver's temperament  and  habits  of  thought.  Certainly  the 
feeling  for  great  spaces  tends  to  abstract  one  from  per- 
sonal and  social  feeling,  and  it  permits  reverie  and  the 
indulging  of  one's  characteristic  mood,  whether  religious 
or  not. 

The  Arabesque  Conception  of  Painting.  We  have 
mentioned  two  classes  of  subject  —  the  portrait  and  the 
landscape — which  are  characteristic  of  modern  painting, 
and  yet  perhaps  the  most  characteristic  thing  about 
modern  painting  is  the  tendency  to  minimize  the  import- 
ance of  any  special  subject.  Whether  a  picture  expresses 
a  personality,  or  stirs  religious  emotion  is  less  important 
than  whether  it  makes  an  agreeable  impression  of  line 
and  mass  and  color.  The  subject  matter  is,  after  all,  only 
the  occasion  for  a  design  or  pattern,  and  the  painting 
is  to  be  judged  by  standards  similar  to  those  that  apply 
to  arabesque  ornaments  or  Persian  carpets.  (Someone 
speaks  of  this  as  the  "Persian-carpet-idea"  in  painting.) 
This  is  to  say  that  a  picture  is  to  be  judged  strictly  by 
its  face  value. 

This  view  of  art  is  favorable  to  the  colorists;  for  they 
try  to  bring  their  art  nearer  the  abstraction  of  pure  design, 
or  of  the  musical  art.     They   would   agree  with  Pater 


THE   ARABESQUE   CONCEPTION  24I 

that  "all  art  constantly  aspires  towards  the  condition  of 
music."  This  means  for  the  painter  that  condition  in 
which  the  hue,  brightness  and  saturation  of  a  color  are 
determined  only  by  the  question  of  harmony  with  other 
colors,  and  not  by  any  question  of  imitative  accuracy. 
The  names  which  Whistler  gave  his  compositions  as 
"Nocturne  in  Blue  and  Gold,"  "Harmony  in  Gray 
and  Green"  sufficiently  indicate  his  concurrence  in 
this  ideal.  Some  of  Brangwyn's  canvases  look  at  a 
little  distance  like  surfaces  of  colored  marble  strongly 
mottled  with  lovely  tints.  The  spectator  is  supposed 
to  enjoy  such  painting  as  he  would  an  arabesque,  —  for 
the  sake  of  what  it  intrinsically  is,  its  immediate  im- 
pression. 

Such  a  conception  of  art  is  in  some  ways  indifferent 
or  antagonistic  to  the  rendering  of  the  third  dimension. 
A  picture  is  essentially  a  thing  of  two  dimensions;  as 
an  art  medium  it  consists  of  colors  applied  to  a  single 
plane  or  surface.  Any  composition  which  is  conspic- 
uously characterized  by  depth  or  bulk  is,  therefore,  an 
attempt  to  get  away  from  the  fundamental  condition  of 
the  art,  but  whatever  makes  an  interesting  composition  in 
two  dimensions  is  conspicuously  adapted  to  it.  A  truly 
picturesque  subject  does  not  need  any  strong  suggestion 
of  depth  to  make  it  attractive.  Japanese  art  has,  as 
Simmel  expresses  it,  "renounced"  the  third  dimension. 
Whistler's  work  is  like  the  Japanese  in  a  certain  agreeable 
flatness  of  effect.  The  figures  or  elements  of  the  picture 
are  all  associated  in  one  plane  instead  of  advancing  or 
retreating  from  one  another,  and  the  spectator  feels  that 
there  is  a  certain  fitness  and  reserve  about  the  way  they 


242  PAINTING 

keep  to  their  plane.  Perhaps  not  a  little  of  the  grace, 
refinement  and  distinction  attained  by  Whistler  and  the 
Japanese  depends  upon  their  adherence  to  this  first  con- 
dition of  their  art. 

Reading  References. 

Leonardo  da  Vinci:   "  Treatise  on  Painting." 

Ruskin:  "  Modern  Painters." 

Pater:  "  The  Renaissance." 

Lee  and  Thompson:  Op.  cit. 

McColl:   "  Nineteenth  Century  Art." 

Berenson:   "  Central  Italian  Painters,"  "  Venetian  Painters." 

George  Moore:  "  Modem  Painting." 

Van  Dyke:   "Art  for  Art's  Sake,"  "  Studies  in  Pictures,"  etc. 

Poore:  "  Pictorial  Composition." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LANGUAGE    AS    AN    ART    MEDIUM 

Literature  and  the  Other  Arts.  In  discriminating  the 
arts  from  one  another  we  must  ask  of  each  what  ad- 
vantage it  has  as  a  medium  of  expression  for  emotion. 
Language  as  an  instrument  of  expression  is  more  flexible 
and  dynamic  than  pictures  and  statues;  for  they  show  one 
phase  of  an  action,  but  words  may  narrate  the  whole 
course  of  it.  Language  is  more  exact  than  music,  for 
it  caa  convey  specific  reflections  and  definite  situations 
from  real  life,  as  music  cannot.  In  representing  human 
emotion  language  has  the  prime  advantage  of  being  able 
to  render  literally  the  speech  of  the  person.  Painting 
can  give  the  visible  appearance,  music  the  intonations; 
but  language  alone  can  give  the  exact  thought  and 
utterance.  Yet  literature  is  somewhat  lacking  in  the 
way  of  direct  sensuous  appeal  when  compared  with  the 
other  arts.  It  stands  on  a  different  footing.  Linguis- 
tic symbols  are  generally  thought  of  as  merely  vicarious, 
having  no  virtues  and  few  charms  of  their  own,  but 
gathering  all  their  value  from  the  ideas  which  they  stand 
for.  Literature  is  comprehensive  in  appealing  to  all  the 
senses.  But  it  does  so  in  a  mediate  and  reflective  way, 
and  it  is  not  always  easy  to  feel,  except  with  the  most 
musical  syllables,  that  literature  fits  in  with  that  definition 
of  art  which  makes  art  the  manifestation  of  the  idea  to 
sense. 

243 


244       LANGUAGE  AS  AN  ART  MEDIUM 

Sensuous  Content  in  Language.  All  language  has, 
nevertheless,  a  sensuous  aspect,  since  it  must  be  expressed 
by  muscular  movements  and  apprehended  by  vision  or 
hearing  or  touch.  Yet  what  language  attempts  really 
to  do  is  to  suggest  things  not  present  to  sense,  the  sen- 
suous element  being  for  the  most  part  different  in  kind 
from  the  sensuous  content  of  the  thing  meant.  The  word 
"red"  does  not  give  a  sensory  stimulus  of  red  color. 
(The  exception  is  in  the  onomatopoetic  or  imitative 
words  which  sound  hke  what  they  mean;  words  like 
slap,, bang,  buzz,  whir,  boom,  etc.)  But  though  language 
does  not  literally  give  the  sensuous  object  which  it  rep- 
resents, yet  artistic  language  may  suggest  it  with  peculiar 
vividness,  and  thus  make  some  approach  to  the  intensity 
of  the  actual  sensuous  impression. 

The  opportunities  for  direct  sensuous  effect  in  lan- 
guage lie  in  the  varieties  of  rhythm  and  in  intrinsic  beauty 
of  sound.  Certain  syllables  and  words  are  pleasing 
whether  they  have  any  specific  meaning  for  us  or  not. 
In  proportion  as  one  becomes  absorbed  by  the  sound 
and  rhythm  rather  than  by  the  signification,  language 
approaches  the  condition  of  music.  This  musical  quality 
is  most  apparent  in  poetry,  but  is  no  less  present  in  good 
prose. 

Language  and  Thought.  The  question  whether  thought 
can  go  on  independently  of  language  is  an  important 
one  for  our  purpose.  If,  by  language,  we  strictly  mean 
articulate  sentences,  then  it  is  pretty  clear  that  a  good 
deal  of  thinking  does  go  on  without  it.  The  more 
characteristic  part  of  a  sculptor's  thought  goes  on  in 
imagery  of  mass  and  line;    a  painter  thinks  in  colors, 


LANGUAGE   AND    THOUGHT  245 

and  a  musician  in  tones  and  musical  phrases.  All  these 
images  can  be  compared,  analyzed,  and  rearranged 
without  verbal  signs.  The  thoughts  of  artists  must, 
indeed,  be  carried  on  largely  in  terms  of  their  respective 
media  of  expression.  When,  however,  the  discussion 
is  limited  to  thought  which  is  adapted  best  to  linguistic 
expression  the  question   is  more  difficult. 

It  is  not  an  uncommon  thing  to  assume,  whether 
consciously  or  not,  that  language  is  merely  a  subordinate 
of  thought,  simply  a  method  of  transferring  from  one 
person  to  another  a  thought  which  is  complete  and 
independent  of  the  fact  of  transference.  It  is  often  said 
that  the  purpose  of  good  style  is  to  'let  the  thought  shine 
through'  and  that,  therefore,  'clearness'  is  the  chief 
virtue  of  style.  This  metaphor  of  shining  through,  as 
though  thought  were  poured  into  its  medium  and  bottled 
up  there,  is  misleading.  Language  and  thought  have  a 
more  intimate  connection  than  that.  When  we  have 
made  an  adjustment  between  our  purpose  and  the 
language  to  convey  it,  i.e.  when  we  have  found  the  one 
word  or  form  of  words  which  we  mean,  —  then  we  have 
become  "clear,"  but  then  we  have  also  identified  our 
thought  with  its  linguistic  expression.  Thinking,  at  least 
thinking  which  is  complex  and  long  sustained,  does  not 
first  get  done  and  then  get  translated  into  becoming 
words,  but  the  words  help  the  thought  along  as  much 
as  the  thought  helps  us  to  the  words.  In  artistic  com- 
position the  thought  and  the  words  are  one,  the  language 
is  the  idea. 

To  put  the  matter  in  another  way,  let  us  recall  that  one 
of  the  principal  types  of  mental  imagery  is  the  imagery 


246        LANGUAGE  AS  AN  ART  MEDIUM 

of  words.  Many  persons  remember  and  fancy,  infer  and 
purpose,  in  verbal  terms,  and  even  feel  to  an  accompani- 
ment or  refrain  of  words.  These  persons  would  be  as 
incapable  of  thinking  without  language  as  would  the 
visual-minded  person  without  visual  images.  The  influ- 
ence of  the  verbal  image  upon  the  power  of  discrimination 
(that  most  fundamental  of  all  mental  acts),  has  been 
brought  out  under  experimental  conditions  by  F.  Angell. 
He  found  that  the  process  of  sensory  discrimination  is 
rendered  more  accurate  with  some  observers  if  they 
attach  a  verbal  description  to  the  impression,  —a  clang, 
or  a  shade  of  gray,  — which  they  are  comparing  with 
other  like  impressions.' 

Figurative  Language.  The  use  of  figures,  or,  to  be  accu- 
rate tropes,  like  metaphor,  simile,  personification,  etc.,  is 
one  of  the  chief  distinctions  of  literary  as  against  scientific 
forms  of  writing.  Tropes  are  sometimes  spoken  of  as 
if  they  were  merely  ornamental,  whereas,  in  fact,  they  are 
essential  parts  of  literary  thought.  The  essential  idea 
in  tropes  is  the  essential  idea  in  any  judgment  and  in  its 
linguistic  expression.  Something  is  said  to  be  something 
else.  A  predicate  is  stated  or  implied  about  a  subject; 
it  shows  some  mode  of  conceiving  the  subject,  some  com- 
parison of  it  to  another  thing.  When  the  mode  of  con- 
ceiving the  subject  is  well  established,  or  when  it  is  capable 
of  definite  elaboration  and  exact  proof,  then  we  have  a 
scientific  statement;  but  when  the  comparison  or  the  mode 
of  conceiving  is  new,  and  not  destined  for  further  defini- 
tion or  proof,  we  have  literary  statement.     This  distinctioji 

'  "Discrimination  of  Shades  of  Gray  for  Different  Intervals  of  Time." 
Phil.  Stud.  xix. 


FIGURATIVE   LANGUAGE  247 

will  not  always  hold;  but  in  general  it  is  true  that  literary 
comparisons  arc  suggestive,  and  scientific  ones  definitive. 
Poetic  thought  often  initiates  a  comparison  which  is  then 
taken  up  by  scientific  thought  and  reduced  to  a  critical 
restatement.  It  is  proper  to  think  of  literary,  and 
especially  poetic  thought  as  being  the  warm  emotional 
beginning  of  knowledge  and  fact.  It  is  full  of  half- 
divined  suggestions.  "Passion  itself,"  Goldsmith  says, 
"is  very  figurative."  Critical  thought  is  the  reduction 
of  tropes  to  facts,  and  the  process  involves  amplifying 
some,  cutting  down  others  and  perhaps  throwing  away 
still  others.  Buck  has  stated  the  matter  as  follows: 
"It  is  impossible  to  see  why  language  in  its  infancy 
must  be  metaphorical,  and  why,  as  it  develops,  these 
early  metaphors  must  'die,'  that  is,  become  plain  state- 
ment, except  under  the  hypothesis  that  figures  represent 
a  necessary  intermediate  stage  in  every  completed  process 
of  thought y  ^ 

'"Figures  of  Rhetoric:   A  Psychological  Study."     Contributions  to 
Rhetorical  Theory.  —  Ed.  Scott. 


CHAPTER  XV 
POETRY 

Definition.  One  definition  of  poetry  (Watts)  ^  says: 
"Absolute  poetry  is  tlie  concrete  and  artistic  expression 
of  the  human  mind  in  emotional  and  rhythmical  lan- 
guage." We  may  accept  it  without  question  that  poetry 
is  generally  more  emotional  and  regularly  rhythmical  than 
prose.  But  it  seems  fair  to  go  rather  moderately  on  the 
subject  of  the  concrete.  Much  of  the  poetry  which 
expresses  philosophic  and  moral  conviction,  as  in  Words- 
worth, Tennyson,  Arnold,  Browning  and  George  Meredith, 
would  be  no  poetry  at  all  if  this  criterion  were  rigidly 
applied.  I  think  one  may  be  justified  in  contending  that 
an  abstraction  may  be  as  vivid  and  emotional  as  a  con- 
crete thing.  If,  indeed,  art  is  typical  and  not  merely 
specific,  a  certain  degree  of  generalization  should  be 
essential  to  a  poetic  theme. 

Another  definition  (Mackail)^  is  as  follows: 
"In  general,  the  essence  of  poetry  as  an  art  is  not  so 
much  that  it  is  rhythmical  (which  all  elevated  language 
is),  or  that  it  is  metrical  (which  not  all  poetry  is,  except 
by  a  considerable  extension  of  the  meaning  of  the  word), 
as  that  it  is  patterned  language.  This  is  its  specific 
quality  as  a  'fine  art.'  The  essence  of  'pattern'  (in  its 
technical  use,  as  applied  to  the  arts),  as  distinct  from 

'  "Poetry."     Art.  in  Cyc.  Britannica. 
'  Murray's  English  Dictionary. 
248 


DEFINITION   OF   POETRY  249 

'composition'  generally,  is  that  it  is  composition  which 
has  what  is  technically  called  a  'repeat';  and  it  is  the 
'repeat'  which  technically  differentiates  poetry  from 
non-poetry,  both  being  (as  arts)  'composition.'  The 
'  repeat '  may  be  obvious,  as  in  the  case  of  rhymed  lines  of 
equal  length,  or  it  may  be  more  implicit,  to  any  degree 
of  subtlety;  but  if  it  does  not  exist,  there  is  technically 
no  poetry.  The  artistic  power  of  the  pattern-designer 
is  shown  in  the  way  he  deals  with  the  problem  of  'repeat,'' 
and  this  is  true  of  poetry  likewise,  and  is  probably  the 
key  (so  far  as  one  exists)  to  any  technical  definition  or 
discussion  of  the  art." 

In  adopting  the  conception  of  a  'repeat'  and  making 
it,  rather  than  rhythm,  the  test  of  poetry,  Mackail  does 
justice  to  such  important  elements  as  rhyme,  assonance, 
the  refrain,  and  the  repetition  of  phrases,  and  also  to  the 
poetry  of  certain  compositions  which  have  no  rhyme  and 
no  strictly  measured  rhythm.  Such  a  composition  is  the 
Litany  of  the  English  Book  of  Common  Prayer.  For 
example: 

"Remember  not,  Lord,  our  offences,  nor  the  offences  of 
our  forefathers;  |  neither  take  thou  vengeance  of  our  sins: 
I  spare  us,  good  Lord,  |  spare  thy  people,  whom  thou 
hast  redeemed  with  thy  most  precious  blood,  i  and  be 
not  angry  with  us  for  ever.  |  Sparc  us,  good  Lord,"  etc. 
This  is  WTitten  for  prose,  but  it  may  well  be  taken  for  six; 
lines  of  poetry.  Though  there  is  no  rhyme  and  nO' 
meter,  there  is  an  obvious  pattern,  and  indeed  the  whole 
of  the  litany  is  an  uncommonly  good  illustration  of  the 
use  of  a  'repeat.' 

Mackail's  statement  is  made  in  terms  of  the  formal 


2  50  POETRY 

side  of  poetry,  but  it  contains  the  key  to  the  other  side 
as  well.  If  we  are  asked  what  ideas  or  themes  or  states 
of  mind  are  poetical,  i.e.,  what  properly  lends  itself  to 
patterned  language,  we  may  answer  that  strong  emotional 
states  are  things  which  stimulate  the  repetition  of  words 
and  phrases.  It  is  often  said  that  emotion  is  naturally 
expressed  in  rhythmical  language,  but  it  is  probably 
better  to  say  that  emotion  naturally  expresses  itself  in 
repeating  language,  which  then  becomes  rhythmical. 
Emotion  is  intense  and  insistent,  and  the  person  who 
feels  it  sometimes  harps  upon  a  question  or  exclamation 
which  has  occurred  to  him  until  the  form  of  words  be- 
comes a  "burden."  At  this  point  rhythm  is  likely  to 
appear;  that  is,  emotional  exclamations  tend  to  become 
rhythmical  because  of  being  oft  repeated. 

Another  characteristic  of  poetry  is  suggested  in  Gum- 
mere's  statement  that^  "Poetry  uses  tropes  consciously, 
boldly,  and  systematically ;  restores,  as  far  as  it  can, 
color  and  freshness  to  language,  and  vividness  to 
expression."  Poetry  expresses  thought  in  that  earlier 
and  more  imaginative  stage  of  which  we  have  spoken. 

The  Ballad.  The  early  communal  ballad  was  a  song 
sung  by  a  crowd  as  an  accompaniment  to  its  dancing. 
The  matter  of  the  song  was  some  narrative  which  had  a 
popular  interest.  It  was  a  direct  and  simple  account  of 
primitive  objective  happenings  — births  and  deaths  and 
battles  for  the  most  part.  One  person  would  sing  the 
narrative  parts  of  the  poem,  the  crowd  taking  up  at  regu- 
lar intervals  some  chorus  or  refrain.  The  authorship 
of  the  poem  was  unknown.     The  ballad   usually  goes 

'  "  A  Handbook  of  Poetics." 


THE   BALLAD  2$ I 

briskly;  deeds  are  crowded  close,  and  the  singer  "up 
and  tells"  them  out  with  the  greatest  directness.  The 
form  of  the  ballad  is  suited  to  its  sense;  the  rhythm  and 
the  diction  are  strong  and  simple,  and  often  crude.  In 
the  following  stanzas  the  story  "gets  off"  quickly,  and 
is  simply  and  objectively  told: 

The  Percy  out  of  Northumberlande, 

And  a  vowe  to  God  mayd  he 
That  he  would  hunte  in  the  mountayns 

Of  Cheviot  within  days  thre, 
In  the  magger  of  doughty  Douglas, 

And  all  that  ever  with  him  be,  etc. 

There  lived  a  wife  at  Usher's  Well, 

And  a  wealthy  wife  was  she; 
She  had  three  stout  and  stalwart  sons. 

And  sent  them  o'er  the  sea,  etc. 

The  modern  reader  is  captivated  by  the  directness  and 
simplicity  with  which  the  old  ballad  begins,  but  it 
sometimes  happens  that  the  modern  reader  becomes 
v/earied  as  the  ballad  proceeds  and  he  perceives  that 
it  has  no  other  resource  of  manner.  We  require  more 
variety  of  form,  partly,  no  doubt,  because  wc  omit  the 
diversion  of  dancing  to  the  words. 

The  modern  ballad,  which  is  the  work  of  one  author, 
is  modeled  in  substance  and  form  after  such  early  songs 
as  the  above,  but  it  often  admits  more  of  the  subjective 
and  personal  element,  and  is  frequently  more  finished  in 
rhythm  and  diction.  It  is  properly  classed,  therefore,  as  a 
kind  of  lyric. 

The  Lyric.  It  is  common  to  say  of  lyric  poetry  that, 
in  distinction  from  epic  and  dramatic  poetry,  it  is  more 


252  POETRY 

song-like  in  form  and  more  subjective  and  personal  in 
theme.  The  lyric  is  expressive  of  the  poet's  own  feeling 
and  thought.  The  epic  and  drama  are  more  concerned 
with  circumstances;  they  treat  of  doings  and  events. 
The  lyric  also  differs  from  them  in  length,  being  com- 
monly much  shorter  than  they. 

The  lyric  differs  from  the  early  ballad  in  several  points. 
Whereas  the  ballad  is  a  narrative  poem  and  recounts  the 
actions  chieliy  of  persons,  the  lyric,  as  we  have  said,  aims 
at  presenting  a  mental  state.  The  emotional  reaction 
which  the  lyric  celebrates  may  be  occasioned  by  a  person 
or  it  may  be  roused  by  a  bird,  a  flower,  a  brook ,  —  any- 
thing. A  lyric  is  more  likely  to  take  the  form  of  exclama- 
tion, as  in  The  Bells: 

What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells! 

or  of  apostrophe,  as  in 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit! 

or  of  question,  as  here: 

Bards  of  passion  and  of  mirth. 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new? 

The  lyric  is  more  personal;  no  ballad  would  begin  like 
this  ode  of  Keats 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk. 

And,  finally,  the  ballad  deals  with  specific  things,  whereas 
the  lyric  may  state  a  general  truth,  or  a  law  of  feeling  or 


THE    EPIC  253 

thought.     A   generalization   hke   the   following   is   suffi- 
ciently lyrical,  but  is  thoroughly  unballad-Hke: 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memon',  — 
Odors,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken." 

The  Epic.  The  epic  is  a  metrical  narrative  which 
treats  of  the  deeds  and  adventures  of  heroic  persons  of 
history  or  tradition.  It  is  lofty  in  character  and  end- 
less in  length.  The  recital  in  poetic  form  of  heroic 
actions  and  historical  events  is  the  survival  of  an  ancient 
practice  rather  than  the  answer  to  a  modern  need. 
When  history  was  preserved  by  oral  tradition,  to  have 
it  cast  in  poetic  form  may  have  been  an  important 
mnemonic  convenience;  for  we  know  that  the  burden  of 
memorizing  is  lightened  by  the  employment  of  rhyme  and 
rhythm.  Probably  another  reason  for  the  continuance 
of  such  poetic  form  was  the  primitive  taste  of  the  listeners: 
it  requires  a  mature  taste  to  discern  good  prose;  whereas 
the  art  of  the  poet  is  more  readily  appreciable  by.  the 
general  run  of  hearers.  With  the  introduction  of  written 
records^  however,  and  with  the  modern  exactions  as  to 
accuracy  and  fullness  of  detail,  the  epic  narrative  as  a 
means  of  historical  instruction  became  quite  out  of  date. 
History  has  become  scientific  and,  like  other  scientific 
information,  finds  its  most  adequate  expression  in  prose. 

The  epic  poem  as  a  means  of  entertainment  is  defective 
by  reason  of  its  length.  Poe  has  argued  that  a  long  poem 
is  a  contradiction  in  terms.  He  says  that  a  poem,  in 
order  to  deserve  the  title,  must  rouse  a  certain  degree  of 
excitement,  and  that  such  a  degree  is  necessarily  transient 


254  POETRY 

and  cannot  be  maintained  throughout  a  composition  of 
any  great  length,  i.e.,  one  that  takes  more  than  half  an 
hour  to  read.  Therefore,  though  we  may  read  an  epic 
continuously,  we  can  enjoy  it  only  in  spots.  We  enjoy  it 
as  a  series  of  shorter  poems,  not  as  a  unified  whole.  In 
addition  to  Poe's  argument  there  are  other  reasons  why 
poetic  composition  should  not  be  long  sustained.  Poetry, 
whether  spoken  aloud  or  read  in  silence,  is  primarily 
intended  for  the  ear,  and  the  silent  reader,  if  he  really 
appreciates  the  music  of  the  lines,  must  let  the  auditory 
imagery  ring  in  his  mind.  This  process  of  sounding 
the  words,  either  literally  with  the  voice  or  in  one's  mind, 
takes  more  time  than  does  the  silent  and  purely  visual 
method  of  reading.  Hence  poetry  should  take  more 
time  than  an  equal  amount  of  prose  such  as  can  be 
adequately  appreciated  by  visual  images  alone.  Then, 
again,  the  rhythms  of  poetry  are  quite  strictly  measured, 
and  when  the  rhythmic  units  —  feet,  verses,  stanzas  — 
are  repeated  over  and  over,  they  eventually  become 
monotonous.  Prose,  on  the  contrary,  with  its  free  and 
ever-varying  rhythm,  is  the  appropriate  medium  for  long 
compositions.  Though  much  of  the  world's  noblest 
literature  is  in  the  epic  form,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
these  poems  are,  as  Poe  suggests,  enjoyed  piecemeal. 
The  epic  as  a  whole  is  universally  respected,  but  not  very 
widely  read. 

The  Drama.  The  drama  as  a  representation  of  action 
and  of  character  has  attained  a  status  as  an  independent 
art-medium;  it  need  no  longer  be  classed  as  a  form  of 
poetry.  The  contemporary  drama  is  regularly  in  prose. 
Even  drama  which  is  written  in  metrical  form  is  not 


POETIC   RHYTHMS  255 

really  apprehended  by  the  hearer  as  a  poem.  The  lines 
are  so  broken  into  and  reorganized  by  the  action  that  the 
rhythmic  flow  is  often  lost  except  in  the  extended  passages 
delivered  by  a  single  speaker.  The  poetry,  when  we  get 
it,  may  lend  great  beauty  to  the  dramatic  impression, 
but  it  comes,  as  in  case  of  the  epic,  in  divided  parts. 
These  parts  are  often  lyrical  in  character  and  would  make 
a  complete  work  of  art  in  themselves,  quite  independently 
of  their  dramatic  setting.  In  modern  practice,  then, 
poetry  and  dramatic  writing  are  entirely  separable  arts. 
Some  characteristics  of  the  drama  will  be  discussed  in 
the  next  chapter. 

Rhythm  as  a  Means  of  Expression.  The  task  of  the 
poet  is  to  see  that  his  meaning  is  expressed  not  only  by  the 
words  he  uses,  but  by  the  rhythmic  form  in  which  they 
are  arranged.  Different  rhythmic  schemes  have  distinc- 
tive emotional  character,  and  it  is  just  as  important  to  get 
the  right  rhythm  for  the  idea  as  it  is  to  get  the  right  words. 

Trochaic  measure,  as  we  saw  in  an  earlier  chapter, 
has  a  more  unpremeditated  and  independent  effect  than 
iambic.  It  predominated  in  early  English  poetry.  We 
may  regard  it  as  the  most  impetuous  and  direct  of  rhyth- 
mic forms.  Among  good  examples  of  its  proper  use  are 
the  following: 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest,  and  youthful  Jolhty,  — 

Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles,  etc. 

Also  George  Herbert's  impetuous  prayer: 

Throw  away  Thy  rod, 
Throw  away  Thy  wrath; 

O  my  God, 
Take  the  gentle  path,  etc. 


256  POETRY 

And  Shelley's  "Serenade": 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee 

In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night,  etc. 

All  three  of  these,  though  different  in  sentiment,  are 
yet  enough  alike  to  be  appropriately  expressed  in  trochaic 
measure.  The  next  two  illustrations  show  a  change 
from  iambic  into  trochaic  measure  as  the  thought  changes 
from  narrative  into  direct  exclamation  or  address.  The 
first  is  from  Ingelow's  "  High-Tide  on  the  Coast  of 
Lincolnshire  ": 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore; 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes: 
The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore. 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies; 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 

She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth,  — 

My  Sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

"  Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!  "  calling, 

Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 

Farre  away  I  heard  her  song. 
"Cusha!  Cusha!"  all  along,  etc. 

The  other  example  is  from  Burns's  "  Bannockburn": 

But  soon  the  sun  broke  through  the  heath 
And  lighted  up  that  field  o'  death. 
When  Bruce,  wi'  saul-inspiring  breath, 
His  heralds  thus  addressed:  — 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led,  etc. 


TROCHAIC    AND    IAMBIC  257 

A  patent  misuse  of  the  trochaic  may  serve  to  bring  out 
the  point  also.     Shelley  writes  of  death: 

Death  is  here,  and  death  is  there, 
Death  is  busy  everywhere. 
All  around,  within,  beneath, 
Above,  is  death,  —  and  we  are  death. 

This  gloomy  thought,  it  will  be  observed,  is  given  the 
same  meter  which  is  so  aptly  used  by  Milton  in 

Come!  and  trip  it,  as  ye  go, 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe. 

Iambic  measure,  which  is  more  graceful  and  flowing 
than  trochaic,  is  more  slow  and  even  than  trisyllabic 
measures.  It  is  suited  to  a  variety  of  purposes,  and  has 
become  the  standard  in  English  verse.  As  we  have  just 
seen,  it  is  felt  to  be  appropriate  to  the  purpose  of  narra- 
tion. It  is  not  inappropriate  to  bright  and  gay  sentiment, 
as  in  Wordsworth's  "  Daffodils."  But  iambic  is  even 
better  adapted  to  ideas  which  are  quiet,  dignified  and 
even  melancholy.  At  least  no  other  rhythm  could  so 
well  harmonize  with  such  lines  as  these: 

And  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  Fatherland, 
Of  child,  and  wife,  and  slave;  but  evermore 
Most  weary  seemed  the  sea,  weary  the  oar. 
Weary  the  wandering  fields  of  barren  foam,  etc. 


or  these: 


Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings? 

Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 

And  battles  long  ago. 


258  POETRY 

Iambic  meter  may,  of  course,  be  gaily  and  rapidly  read, 
but  its  proper  beauty  comes  out  best  with  a  moderate 
rate.  Dabney  writes:^  "Generally  speaking,  we  might . . . 
characterize  the  2-beat  rhythm  as  the  medium  of  the 
Poetry  of  Reflection;  and  the  3-beat  rhythm  as  more 
specifically  the  medium  of  the  Poetry  of  Motion."  He 
is  quite  right  to  say  so  of  iambic  meter  certainly;  but 
trochaic  measure,  though  relatively  slow,  is  impulsive 
rather  than  reflective. 

Dactyllic  measure,  because  of  its  initial  accent,  par- 
takes of  the  impatient  and  rugged  nature  of  the  trochee, 
but  the  dactyl  is  more  complex,  since  it  balances  a 
strong  beat  by  two  light  ones.  It  is  more  rapid  than  the 
trochee,  and  hence  better  adapted  to  express  eagerness 
and  quick  motion.  In  Scott  the  dactyl  has  a  martial 
roll: 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 

Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 


Or  in 


Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  advances! 
Honored  and  blest  be  the  evergreen  Pine! 


Tennyson  uses  it  for  a  similar  effect  in  the  "  Charge  of 
the  Light  Brigade."  In  the  following  couplet  from 
Shakespeare  the  dactyl  has  a  rippling  movement: 

Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

^  "The  Musical  Basis  of  Verse." 


TRISYLLABIC    MEASURES  259 

In  Longfellow's  "  Challenge  of  Thor  "  it  lends  itself  to 
a  fine  swagger: 

I  am  the  God  Thor, 

I  am  the  War  God, 

I  am  the  Thunderer!  etc. 

Swinburne,  perhaps,  has  made  the  most  brilliant  success 
of  dactyllic  meter.  He  employs  it  in  "  The  Hounds  of 
Spring,"  but  varies  it  freely  with  anapests: 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of  quivers, 

Maiden  most  perfect,  Lady  of  Light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 
With  a  clamor  of  waters,  and  with  might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou,  most  fleet! 
Over  the  splendor  and  speed  of  thy  feet! 
For  the  faint  east  quickens,  the  wan  west  shivers. 
Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of  the  night. 
4 

The  anapest  and  the  amphibrach  have  each  something 

of  the  rolling  quality  of  the  dactyl.  The  anapest  is  dash- 
ing and  gallant,  as  in  Byron: 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold, 

or  as  in  Scott's  "  Lochinvar."  The  amphibrach  has 
rather  less  of  hurry;  for,  if  it  is  read  rapidly,  it  tends  to 
pass  over  into  dactyllic  measure.  Arnold's  "Forsaken 
Merman"   has  it  in  places: 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 
When  soft  the  winds  blow, 
When  clear  falls  the  moonlight. 
When  spring-tides  are  low,  etc. 

These  lines  give  more  the  impression  of  a  gentle  rocking 
motion  than  they  do  of  onward  haste.     Amphimacers  are 


26o  POETRY 

also  slower  and  more  deliberate  than  dactyls  and  ana- 
pests,  and  are  somewhat  hard  to  sustain,  unless  a  long 
pause  is  introduced  between  the  feet,  as  in  the  following: 
Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest. 

Poetic  rhythm  is  formally  divided  not  only  into  feet, 
but  also  into  lines  or  verses,  and  the  expressive  effect 
is  varied  by  the  length  of  the  verse  through  which  the 
thought  is  carried.  A  short  line  is  fitted  to  give  sparkle 
and  verve,   a  long  line,   weight   and   dignity.     In  this: 

Tell  me  where  is  fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 


And  this: 


She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing. 

She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing,  etc.. 


we  feel  that  the  prettiness  and  daintiness  would  be  quite 
changed  if  the  verses  were  lengthened  out.  The  standard 
length  for  English  verse  is  the  iambic  pentameter,  this 
being  the  chosen  measure  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser, 
Shakespeare  and  Milton.  The  five-foot  verse  is  long 
enough  to  be  sonorous,  and  short  enough  to  be  coherent, 
that  is  to  stay,  unified  into  a,  single  whole.  Having  an 
odd  number  of  feet  it  cannot  break  in  the  middle  as 
longer  lines  of  six  and  eight  feet  do.  In  Swinburne's 
"A  Word  with  the  Wind,"  howCver,  the  long  lines  are 
kept  unbroken  by  their  meaning: 

Lord  of  days  and  nights  that  hear  thy  word  of  wintry  warning, 
Wind,  whose  feet  are  set  on  ways  that  none  may  tread. 

Change  the  nest  wherein  thy  wings  are  fledged  for  flight  by  morning. 
Change  the  harbor  whence  at  dawn  thy  sails  are  spread. 


STANZAIC    PATTERN  26  I 

Here  both  the  seven-foot  and  the  alternating  six-foot 
lines  are  successfully  sustained;  but  verses  of  this  length 
are  difficult. 

Verses,  in  their  turn,  arc  units  in  larger  patterns,  such 
as  the  couplet,  the  triplet  and  the  stanza  of  four  or  more 
lines.  The  rhythmic  design  of  these  larger  wholes  may 
be  almost  infinitely  varied.  A  four-line  stanza,  for  in- 
stance, might  have  all  its  lines  of  equal  length  and  iden- 
tical rhythm;  or  it  might  have  them  arranged  as  long, 
short,  long  short;  or  long,  short,  short,  long;  or  long,  long, 
short,  long,  etc.,  etc.  With  a  larger  number  of  lines  of 
course  the  variations  are  greatly  multiplied.  A  skilful 
use  of  stanzaic  pattern  is  perhaps  more  difficult  than  the 
proper  use  of  rhythmic  feet.  It  is  interesting  to  notice 
how  the  same  rhythm  may  be  developed  in  the  stanza  by 
different  poets.  This  stanza  from  Hood  is  a  good  example 
of  the  rhythm  of  the  stanza;  there  is  the  rhythm  of  the 
dactyls  combined  into  the  larger  rhythm  of  long  verse, 
short  verse,  long  verse,  short  verse: 

One  more  unfortunate, 

Weary  of  breath, 
Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death! 

In  the  following  stanza  from  Dobson  we  get  the  same 
form  incorporated  into  a  larger  whole: 

Here  in  this  leafy  place, 

Quiet  he  lies, 
Cold,  with  his  sightless  face 

Turned  to  the  skies; 
'Tis  but  another  dead;  — ■ 
All  you  can  say  is  said. 


262  POETRY 

The  first  four  lines  of  this  are  a  coherent  whole,  and  so 
are  the  last  two  lines,  and  these  two  parts  are  balanced 
off  against  one  another.  When,  therefore,  this  arrange- 
ment is  repeated,  as  it  is  in  the  remaining  stanzas  of 
the  poem,  it  creates  a  recurrent  variation  of  form  which, 
if  it  came  rapidly  enough,  could  be  considered  as  a  larger 
form  of  rhythm.  Another  step  in  the  development  of 
this  same  stanza  is  given  in  Swinburne's  "Off  Shore": 

As  my  soul  has  been  dutiful 

Only  to  thee, 
O  God  most  beautiful, 
Lighten  thou  me, 
As  I  swim  through  the  dim  long  rollers,  with  eyelids  uplift  from  the 
sea,  etc. 

Here  the  hne  at  the  end  of  the  stanza  is  a  long,  slow  ebb 
which  balances  the  onward  rolling  movement  of  the 
first  four  lines.  It  saves  the  poem  from  the  monotony 
and  jerkiness  which  come  of  too  many  short  lines,  and 
it  forms  a  more  adequate  contrast  to  the  first  part  than. 
Dobson's  final  couplet  gives. 

In  the  following  extract  from  Lanier's  "  Marshes  of 
Glynn"  there  is  an  interesting  harmony  between  the  form 
of  the  stanza  and  its  meaning: 

And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh;  lo,  out  of  his  plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast;   full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood-tide  must  be: 
Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that  flow 
Here  and  there, 
Everywhere, 


RHYTHM    OF    INTEREST  263 

Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and  the  low-lying 

lanes, 
And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins. 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow,  etc. 

There  is  wonderful  propriety  in  the  gradual  swelling  and 
subsiding  of  these  lines,  and  in  the  very  form  of  the  stanza 
the  flowing  of  the  sea  is  insinuated.* 

Rhythm  of  Interest.  A  poem  composed  in  formal 
rhythm  of  feet,  verses  and  stanzas  may  have  in  addition 
to  these  a  fluctuation  of  emphasis  which  depends  upon 
the  meaning  of  the  words.     Take  these  two  lines: 

While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps, 
and 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

In  the  formal  scheme  of  the  poem  these  two  lines  are 
similar  and  might  be  expected  to  have  the  same  rhythm; 
but  because  of  the  difference  in  meaning  the  first  would 
naturally  be  read  in  this  way: 

I    . ,    n    , .  . .   I     I    ,_.    II    ....  I     II 

'  The  student,  of  course,  understands  that  the  "form  "  of  the  stanza 
means  the  auditory,  not  the  visual,  form.     There  is  a  class  of  poems  in 
which  the  lines  of  the  printed  page  take  the  visible  shape  of  the  object 
described  in  the  verses.      E.g.,  in  Herbert's  "  Easter  Wings": 
Lord,  Who  rreatedst  man  in  wealth  and  store, 
Though  foolishly  he  lost  the  same, 
Decaying  more  and  more. 
Till  he  became 
Most  poo  re: 

With  Thee 
O  let  me  rise, 
As  larks,  harmoniously. 
And  sing  this  dav  Thy  victories: 
Then  shall  the  fall  further  the  flight  in  me. 
Such  a  fanciful  performance  does  not  add  anything  to  the  literary  or 
artistic  merit  of  the  poetry,  because  the  appearance  has  nothing  to  do 
with  poetic  form. 


264  POETRY 

and  the  second  this  way: 

II     ,  .     I     .  .     ,1     II     ..    I     ....  I     II 

In  the  opening  h'nes  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  there  is  a 
noteworthy  instance  of  the  formal  divisions  of  the  poem 
being  absorbed  by  the  division  according  to  meaning: 

Of  Man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree,  whose  mortal  taste 
Brought  death  into  the  world  and  all  our  woe, 
With  loss  of  Eden,  till  one  greater  Man 
Restore  us  and  regain  the  blissful  seat, 
Sing  heavenly  Muse,  etc. 

The  formal  pause  would  come  at  the  end  of  each  line, 
but  the  rhythm  of  interest  moves  on  with  a  larger  stride. 
The  first  five  lines  give  the  effect  of  a  chant,  crowding  a 
"  world  of  words  "  on  its  reciting  note.  Then  when  it 
comes  to  "Sing  heavenly  Muse"  every  word  of  this  phrase 
rings  out  with  the  energy  which  had  been  gathering 
in  all  the  preceding  lines.  The  vigor  of  this  phrase 
balances  the  length  of  what  goes  before  it. 

The  opposition  between  the  formal  metrical  scheme 
of  a  poem  and  the  rhythmic  division  suggested  by  the 
meaning  is  called  by  Lewis  the  law  of  conflict.  He 
writes  of  it  as  follows:'  "  There  is  ...  an  ideal  rhythmi- 
cal scheme.  The  actual  movement  of  the  verse  does  not 
exactly  correspond  with  this  ideal  scheme;  it  plays  all 
about  it,  swaying  back  and  forth  like  a  pendulum,  per- 
haps, now  behind  and  now  ahead  of  the  ideal;  but  it  never 
wholly  forsakes  it.  The  pleasure  which  verse  gives  to  an 
educated  taste  is  partly  due  to  this  perpetual  conflict 

1  "The  Principles  of  English  Verse." 


RHYME  265 

between  the  actual  and  the  ideal.  Sometimes,  for  a 
while,  the  verse  moves  in  even  step  with  the  ideal  scheme, 
but  surely  sooner  or  later  it  breaks  away;  the  i)oet's 
language,  or  the  feeling  stirred  by  his  thought,  proves  a 
little  too  strong  for  our  rhythmical  instinct,  and  escapes 
from  the  fetters;  but  the  instinct  has  not  been  quelled  and 
it  speedily  asserts  itself  again." 

We  may  say,  then,  that  the  rhythm  of  form  and  the 
rhythm  of  significance  act  in  much  the  same  way  as  two 
parts  in  music,  stimulating  opposed  impulses  and  hence 
an  emotional  reaction. 

Rhyme.  Rhyme  is  the  likeness  between  the  terminal 
sounds  of  words.  One  word  rhymes  with  another,  in  the 
strict  sense,  if  the  last  accented  vowel  and  everything 
that  follows  it  are  identical  in  sound.  Thus,  jain  and 
reign,  tenderly  and  slenderly.  Rhyme  is  not  an  essential 
of  poetry,  but  it  has  important  uses.  It  is  intrinsically 
agreeable,  and  is  welcome,  therefore,  as  a  purely  sen- 
suous charm.  It  has,  besides,  a  function  in  unifying  the 
stanza  and  in  facilitating  its  movement. 

The  simplest  rhyming  plan  is  a  succession  of  couj)lcts. 
The  two  lines  are  bound  together  by  the  identity  of 
their  final  sound,  and  that  is  the  whole  story;  there  is 
no  suspense  of  intervening  lines,  no  tax  on  the  reader's 
attention  in  this  respect.  This  plan  is  appropriate  to  a 
peaceful  poem  like  "  The  Deserted  Village,"  where  an 
impression  of  simj)Iicity  and  tranquillity  is  desired.  It 
is  also  well  suited  to  rapid  narrative,  but  for  a  different 
reason.  Thus  in  a  poem  like  "Lochinvar"  the  couplet  is 
good  because  it  gives  the  least  possible  "back-stepping" 
to  the  movement.      When  the  couplet  is  completed  it  is 


266  POETRY 

let  alone.  In  a  tale  like  this,  full  of  adventure,  the  reader 
is  in  a  hurry,  and  he  does  not  want  to  get  on  three  or  four 
lines  and  then  find  the  rhymes  harking  back  to  the  lines 
he  has  left  way  behind. 

The  commonest  arrangement  of  rhymes  in  the  stanza 
is  the  rhyming  of  ahernate  lines,  as  in  Gray's  "  Elegy." 
In  this  plan  the  third  line  reminds  us  of  the  first,  and 
the  fourth  line  of  the  second.  This  cross  reference  or 
interlacing  of  the  verses  increases  the  complexity  and 
the  coherence  of  the  stanza.  On  the  whole,  however,  the 
movement  of  the  rhymes  is  in  a  forward  direction,  that  is, 
the  last  line  docs  not  take  us  back  to  the  first,  but  only 
to  the  second  line. 

Quite  different  is  the  feeling  in  the  next  two  examples. 
This  from  Tennyson: 

But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 

A  use  in  measured  language  lies; 

The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 
Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 

There  is  here  a  backward  roll  which  begins  when  we  get 
to  the  word  "exercise"  and  is  continued  by  the  reference 
of  the  word  "pain"  in  the  last  line  to  "brain"  in  the 
first.  Such  a  form  is  especially  fitted  to  the  meditative 
character  of  such  a  poem.  In  the  next  example,  a 
stanza  from  Dryden's  "  Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  " 
the  rhyme  is  almost  too  tyrannical. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 
When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell, 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell, 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 


RHYME  267 

Less  than  a  God  they  thought  there  could  not  dwell 

Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell, 

That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell? 

It  hinders  the  movement  to  be  brought  back  so  often  to 
the  same  point,  and  if  one  may  criticize  this  stanza  at 
all  it  would  be  on  the  score  of  the  verses 'being  too  tightly- 
bound  together.  Another  stanza  with  a  strong  backward 
reference  is  the  quatrain  of  the  form  aaba,  as  in  Omar 
Khayyam : 

The  moving  Finger  writes;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on:   nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 

The  quatrain  begins  with  a  rhyming  couplet,  and  then 
adds  a  line  which  does  not  rhyme,  and  which  the  reader 
half  supposes  to  be  the  first  of  another  rhyming  couplet. 
When,  however,  the  fourth  line  comes,  and,  instead  of 
rhyming  with  the  third,  reverts  to  the  second  and  first 
lines,  one  gets  a  sense  of  frustration,  as  if  the  last  line  had 
tried  to  escape  from  the  established  rhyme  of  the  first 
couplet  and  could  not.  The  quatrains  of  Omar  are  all 
a  remarkable  illustration  of  rhythm  and  rhyme  suiting  the 
meaning  of  a  poem.  The  even  flow  of  the  iambics,  and 
the  fateful  recurrence  of  the  rhyme,  consort  supremely 
well  with  the  meaning  of  the  verses  and  their  melancholy 
philosophy  of  the  inevitable. 

Rhyme,  we  said,  not  only  tmifies  a  stanza,  but  it  tends 
to  make  a  difference  in  its  rate  of  movement.  Stetson, 
who  has  made  an  experimental  study  of  the  point,  says 
that  rhyme  has  the  effect  of  shortening  the  pause  at  the 


268  POETRY 

end  of  a  verse.  The  pause  must  be  lengthened  where 
there  is  no  rhyme,  i.e.,  the  rhyme  seems  to  take  the  place 
of  a  long  interval.  This  means  that  a  rhymed  poem 
naturally  moves  a  little  faster  than  blank  verse.  It  is 
interesting  in  this  connection  to  recall  Shakespeare's  use 
of  the  rhymed  couplet  at  the  end  of  his  scenes.  The 
speaker,  by  this  device,  carries  himself  off  the  stage  with 
a  rhyme. 

Alliteration  and  Assonance.  Alliteration  is  the  repeti- 
tion of  like  sounds  at  the  beginning  of  words  which  stand 
next  or  near  one  another.  It  is  sometimes  called  initial 
rhyme.     Examples  are: 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  /akes. 

And,  also,  the  following,  in  which  whole  words  rhyme,  but 
at  the  beginning  of  the  verses: 

Nightly  on  the  path  that  sped  them 
Brightly  shone  the  star  that  led  them. 

Alliteration  was  the  regular  use  in  early  English  poetry, 
but  in  modern  poetry  it  has  given  way  to  end  rhyme,  and 
is  now  sparingly  used  except  by  a  few  poets. 

Another  and  subtler  beauty  lies  in  the  use  of  assonance. 
Words  which  have  different  consonants,  but  the  same 
vowel  sounds,  — i.e.,  all  the  vowel  sounds  beginning  with 
the  first  accented  ones  being  ahke,  —  are  said  to  be  as- 
sonant. Thus  moan  and  old;  merriment  and  eminent; 
dances  and  masses.  Alliteration,  assonance  and  rhyme 
are  merely  different  forms  of  repetition.  Roughly  speak- 
ing, they  refer  respectively  to  similarities  in  the  first 
part,  the  middle  part,  and  the  last  part  of  words.  It  is 
also  common  in  poetry  to  find  whole  words  repeated  for 


REPETITION  269. 

musical  effect.  The  following  stanza  illustrates  all  four 
kinds  of  repetition: 

Some  for  the  Glories  of  this  World;  and  some 
Sigh  for  the  Prophet's  Paradise  to  come; 

Ah,  take  the  Cash  and  let  the  Credit  go, 
Nor  heed  the  rumble  of  a  distant  Drum! 

There  are  other  refinements  of  repetition  not  covered! 
.  by  the  definitions  of  rhvme,  alliteration  and  assonance. 
An    example   occurs    in    these    lines    from    Swinburne's 
"A  Forsaken  Garden": 

In  a  coign  of  the  clifi"  between  lowland  and  highland, 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward  and  lee, 

Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 
The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 

Here  the  words  "lowland"  and  "highland"  do  not 
rhyme  because  the  accented  vowels  are  not  alike,  nor, 
by  the  same  test,  are  they  assonant,  neither  are  they 
alliterative.  Yet  they  are  partially  identical  and  give  an. 
agreeable  repetition.  The  same  thing  is  true  of  "  inland  " 
and  "island"  except  that  here  an  imperfect  alliteration  is 
present. 

The  Poetic  Imagination  is  Sensuous.  The  influence 
of  rhythm,  rhyme,  assonance,  and  all  tonal  beauties  of 
poetry  is  a  direct  sensuous  influence.  There  is  also  an 
indirect  sensuous  stimulus  in  poetry  due  to  the  fact  that 
the  poet  seems  to  dwell  with  delight  on  the  sensuous 
aspect  of  his  thought  imagery.  The  meanings  of  poetry- 
arc  more  sensuous  than  the  meanings  of  prose.  The 
familiar  examjjJe  is  Keats,  who  never  fails  to  linger  over 
the  elements  of  color,  light,  tone,  warmth,  coolness,  touch, 
taste  and  smell,  as  in  "The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes": 


270  POETRY 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd, 

While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 

And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon;  etc. 

Thus  a  fullness  of  reference  to  elementary  sensation  is 
one  of  the  characteristics  of  poetic  as  distinct  from  prose 
thought. 

Poetry  and  Melancholy.  We  have  mentioned  some  of 
the  means  by  which  the  poet  expresses  emotion  and  gives 
it  an  agreeable  and  appropriate  setting.  It  remains 
to  inquire  whether  one  kind  of  emotion  is  more  fitted 
than  others  for  poetical  expression.  Poe  says  that  mel- 
ancholy is  the  most  legitimate  of  all  the  poetical  tones. 
Woodberry  writes  that  sadness  prevails  in  the  lyric  and 
in  the  lyrical  temperament.  Is  there  any  reason  for 
this?  The  only  explanation  that  occurs  to  the  present 
writer  is  that  the  supremely  beautiful  always  carries 
with  it  so  great  suggestiveness  that  the  artist  and  the 
observer  may  both  feel  a  sense  of  painful  fullness  of  mean- 
ing. Moreover,  one  of  the  characteristics  of  esthetic 
consciousness  is  the  absorption  of  the  subject  in  the 
object,  and  it  would  seem  that  a  complete  surrender 
of  this  kind  is  not  effected  without  a  pang.  This,  how- 
ever, is  no  more  true  of  poetry  than  of  any  other  form 
of  art.  Whether  there  is  any  specific  reason  why  poetry 
generally,  or  the  lyric  in  particular,  should  find  melan- 
choly its  most  legitimate  tone  would  be  an  interesting 
inquiry  for  the  psychology  of  art. 


POETRY  271 

Reading  References 

"Watts:   "Poetry."     Art.  in  Cyc.  Brit. 

Poe:  "The  Poetic  Principle." 

Gummere:  "Handbook  of  Poetics."  "The  Beginnings  of 
Poetry." 

Lewis:   "The  Principles  of  English  Verse." 

Lanier:   "The  Science  of  English  Verse." 

Dabney:    "The  Musical  Basis  of  Verse." 

Stetson:  "Rhythm  and  Rhyme."  Harvard  Psychol.  Studies, 
vol.  i. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE   DRAMA 

The  germ  of  the  drama,  it  is  said,  is  the  representation 
of  an  action  by  an  action.  But  since  all  life  is  action  and 
not  all  life  is  dramatic,  we  must  still  ask  what  sort  of  action 
can  be  adapted  to  stage  presentation.  In  the  first  place 
we  are  told  that  there  has  got  to  be  a  struggle  of  opposing 
forces  (Freytag  et  a/.),  but  here,  too,  we  shall  need  a  fur- 
ther restriction  of  the  term.  Every  voluntary  act  implies 
an  opposition  of  forces  more  or  less  serious;  indeed,  in 
order  to  have  consciousness  at  all  there  must  be  some 
interruption  in  our  established  habits,  and  a  consequent 
attempt  to  reorganize  our  activities.  Every  voluntary  act 
or  decision,  then,  represents  a  conflict  of  impulses  or  a 
struggle  between  different  interests.  Now  there  are 
a  great  many  such  struggles,  and  some  of  them  most 
interesting  to  us  all,  which  would  not  be  in  the  least 
suitable  for  stage  production.  A  moral  struggle  might 
be  carried  on  without  any  perceptible  outward  sign. 
A  ruler  weighing  the  interest  of  his  country  against  the 
advantage  of  his  friends  might  go  through  the  conflict 
simply  within  his  own  mind,  without  showing  any  of  the 
steps  by  which  he  comes  to  his  final  decision.  In  order 
to  make  a  struggle  dramatic  the  opposing  forces  must 
be  in  a  manner  personified  and  rendered  pictorial,  as 
well.  When  the  conflict  is  between  person  and  person 
the  case  is  clear.     But  even  when  the  case  is  more  ideal, 

272 


THE    DRAMA  273 

as  a  question  between  patriotism  and  religion,  there  must 
be  a  personal  advocate  for  the  ideal  interest.  In  other 
words,  the  stage  demands  the  presence  of  people,  and 
these  people  must  be  working,  whether  consciously  or 
not,  toward  opposed  ends.  Their  action  also  must  be 
such  as  appeals  to  the  eye;  there  must  be  made  apparent 
before  us  the  interaction  of  mind  upon  mind. 

Writers  on  the  drama  point  out  that  not  only  must 
there  be  a  struggle,  but  that  the  law  of  cause  and  effect 
must  be  patent  in  the  action.  We  might  put  this  in 
another  way  and  say  that  no  action  is  really  presented 
to  us  unless  both  a  stimulus  and  response  are  exhibited. 
For  instance,  we  may  see  A  walk  up  to  B  and  hit  him; 
but  this  we  cannot  accept  as  a  complete  action  in  itself; 
we  do  not  understand  really  what  the  action  is  until  we 
find  out  the  reason  which  led  to  it.  If  we  find  that  A 
is  a  bully  w^ho  simply  wanted  to  pick  a  fight,  that  makes 
it  one  kind  of  action;  but  if  we  discover  that  he  did  it 
because  B  needed  hitting,  that  makes  it  another  kind. 
The  physical  performance  may  look  to  be  the  same  in 
the  two  cases,  but  the  "  act  "  is  quite  different.  The 
act  is  constituted  by  stimulus  and  response  together. 
Obviously  it  is  unsatisfactory  to  an  audience  to  get  only 
one  side  of  an  action;  to  find  it  significant  they  must  know 
both  the  encitcment  and  the  reaction.  The  demand  for 
causality  in  a  play  is  but  one  aspect  of  the  demand  for 
unity  or  coherence. 

The  Nature  of  Tragedy.  "  Tragedy,  then,"  said 
Aristotle,'  "  is  an  imitation  of  an  action  that  is  serious, 
complete  and  of  a  certain  magnitude;  in  language  embel- 
'  Butcher,  "  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fine  Art." 


274  THE   DRAMA 

lished  with  each  kind  of  artistic  ornament,  ...  in  the 
form  of  action,  not  of  narrative;  through  pity  and  fear 
effecting  the  proper  purgation  of  these  emotions."  The 
tragic  theme,  therefore,  must  be  something  pitiful  and 
fearful,  something  seriousand  large,  something  artistic- 
and  complete.  That  which  is  most  pitiful  and  fearful 
in  our  eyes  is  the  sight  of  human  suffering.  Those  things 
which  are  most  serious  and  large  are  the  njoral^and  social, 
laws.  We  may  argue,  then,  that  the  most  tragic  situa- 
tions are  those  in  which  human  suffering  is  seen  to_be. 
involved  jri_the  operation  of  moral  and  social  law. 
Woodbridge  sums  up  the  essentials  of  the  tragic  in  three 
terms:  suffering,  struggle  (the  struggle  must  end  in 
failure)  and  causality.  Suffering  alone,  she  says, 
gives  us  pathos,  struggle  alone  gives  the  heroic,  and 
causality  alone  the  rational.  The  three  together  give 
the  tragic. 

The  tragic  hero  must  be  some  one  whose  fate  will  be 
significant  for  many  persons,  that  is,  he  must  be  some 
one  who  stands  in  typical  relations  with  his  time.  In 
the  ancient  world  a  king  or  military  leader  would  be  the 
fittest  material  for  a  tragic  hero;  because,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  ideal  of  nearly  all  the  men  in  those  days  was  leader- 
ship in  politics  or  in  war.  In  our  own  time,  the  choice  of 
a  tragic  hero  is  less  limited,  because  there  is  a  greater 
variety  of  leadership.  But  in  any  case  the  person  chosen 
muse  have  some  kind  of  power  or  resource.  In  a  tragic 
struggle  the  hero  must  have  a  fighting  capacity  which 
commands  the  respect  of  the  audience.  Otherwise,  as 
Woodbridge  says,  the  effect  of  his  struggle  is  merely 
pathetic,  not  tragic. 


NATURE   OF   TRAGEDY  275 

It  is  often  said  that  in  tragedy  we  must  feel  that  the 
hero's  deed  is  recoiling  upon  himself,  that  his  doom  is 
the  natural  result  and  just  reward  for  his  action.  Some 
degree  of  guilt  is  assumed.  Nov/  guilt  and  its  punish- 
ment are  often  tragic  certainly,  but  they  are  not  essential 
to  tragedy.  Indeed  the  most  poignant  tragedies  are 
sometimes  just  those  in  which  no  very  severe  blame  can 
be  put  upon  the  hero,  but  in  which  a  horrible  doom  over- 
takes him  for  doing  that  which  any  one  might  have  done 
in  his  place,  or  for  doing  nothing  blameworthy  at  all. 
From  the  human  point  of  view  no  real  blame  can  attach  to 
Prometheus  or  to  Antigone.  Hamlet  had  done  nothing 
to  deserve  the  situation  in  which  he  found  himself,  and 
even  Lear's  fault  was  wholly  incommensurate  with  the 
penalty  for  it.  Not  the  hero  in  such  plays,  but  "this 
sorry  scheme  of  things  entire,"  is  at  fault.  The  mistakes 
of  this  poor  soul  and  the  sins  of  that  one  are  serious 
enough,  it  is  true,  but  what  are  they  to  the  mistakes  and 
cruelties  of  natural  law?  Human  nature  and  human 
environment  are  such  that  insoluble  conflicts  can  arise 
without  malice  or  evil  design  on  the  part  of  any  one.  As 
Meredith  says, 

I  see  no  sin: 
The  wrong  is  mixed.     In  tragic  life,  God  wot, 
No  villain  need  be!     Passions  spin  the  plot. 

Tragedy,  then,  shows  a  clash  of  forces  of  the  most  serious 
kind;  its  problems  are  apparently  insoluble,  and  the  suf- 
fering of  the  hero  may  or  may  not  be  the  outcome  of  his 
own  guilt. 

The  Enjoyment  of  Tragedy.  In  the  first  place  tragedy 
may  please  us,  not    because  it    is   tragic,  but   because 


2/6  THE   DRAMA 

it  is  dramatic.  The  dramatic  art  makes  a  sensuous 
appeal  which  is  uncommonly  vivid  and  complex.  It 
not  merely  appeals  to  instinct  through  light,  color, 
and  animated  movement,  but  it  combines  much  of 
the  beauty  of  pictorial  composition  with  that  of  the 
spoken  words,  and  sometimes  with  the  beauty  of  music. 
The  richness  of  this  appeal  is  certainly  well  calculated 
to  make  the  drama  the  supremely  absorbing  thing  which 
it  is.  Also  in  any  dramatic  conflict  we  see  human  nature 
on  trial,  and  this  seldom  fails  to  attract  us. 

The  points  so  far  mentioned  apply,  of  course,  to  comedy 
as  well  as  to  tragedy;  but  there  is  a  reason  for  taking 
pleasure,  or  at  least  vivid  interest,  in  tragedy  as  such, 
Henry  Arthur  Jones  writes  as  follows  about  the  tragedy 
of  "Prometheus":  ' 

"We  take  the  keenest  delight  in  reading  of  his  suffer- 
ings, because  they  are  not  so  horrible  as  his  patience  and 
strength  and  defiance  of  the  tyrant  are  beautiful;  the 
very  cruelty  and  malignancy  of  his  torments  become  the 
measure  of  our  admiration  and  the  levers  of  our  praise. 
Our  shudder  of  revolt  at  his  sufferings  is  not  so  great 
as  our  wonder  at  his  dauntless  endurance;  the  physical 
horror  is  nothing  compared  with  the  spiritual  beauty." 

The  pain  and  temptation  which  are  brought  to  bear  on 
the  hero  are  a  register  of  his  endurance,  and  this  is  true 
whether  he  holds  out  against  them,  like  Prometheus, 
or  succumbs,  like  Macbeth.  In  physical  experiments 
the  strength  of  a  cord  is  found  by  weighting  it  down 
until  it  breaks.  The  tragedy  is  a  spiritual  experiment 
which  sometimes  proceeds  on  the  same  principle. 

^  "The  Renascence  of  the  English  Drama." 


FUNCTION    OF   TRAGEDY  2// 

The  Use  of  Tragedy.  A  discussion  of  the  function  of 
tragedy,  however  brief,  must  at  least  mention  Aristotle's 
doctrine  of  Katharsis,  that  is,  his  remark  that  tragedy, 
through  pity  and  fear,  effects  the  proper  purgation  of  these 
emotions.  A  great  deal  of  theory  has  been  written  to 
show  what  Aristotle  meant  by  this.  One  view  is  that  the 
spectator  of  a  tragedy  has  his  feelings  of  pity  and  fear 
aroused  by  the  great  suffering  of  the  hero,  and  in  this 
moment  of  fervent,  disinterested  feeling  for  greater  suf- 
fering than  his  own,  all  the  impure,  selfish  elements  of 
pity  and  fear  are  burned  away.  Tragedy,  in  this  way, 
would  be  a  means  of  cleansing  these  emotions  from  their 
undesirable  elements  and  of  teaching  the  spectator  to 
reserve  them  for  proper  subjects.  Another  view  has  it 
that  pity  and  fear  are  in  themselves  undesirable  and 
that  the  tragedy  tends  to  rouse  them  and  to  draw  them 
off  in  a  harmless  way,  so  that  the  spectator  of  the  play 
is  purged  from  these  emotions.  In  spite  of  the  theories, 
however,  the  doctrine  of  the  Katharsis  is  scarcely  a  settled 
problem. 

We  have  said  that  the  essential  function  of  art  is  to 
present  a  problem  or  an  objectified  emotion.  No  form 
of  art  shows  this  more  clearly  than  the  tragedy.  The 
desperate  conflict  of  impulses  is  the  very  condition  for 
stronge  motion.  These  impulses  are  objectified  by  being 
represented  by  the  persons  in  the  play.  Thus  the  con- 
flicting impulses  in  ]\Iacbeth's  mind  are  ambition  versus 
conscience  and  social  obligation,  and  these  are  repre- 
sented and  stimulated  by  the  three  witches  and  Lady 
Macbeth  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  Duncan,  Banquo,  and 
all  who   stand  for  the  established  order,  on  the  other. 


2/8  THE   DRAMA 

The  tragedies  which  we  should  suppose  the  spectator 
would  feel  most  keenly  are  those  in  which  he  can  sym- 
pathize with  both  sides  in  the  struggle;  for  then  he  tends 
most  thoroughly  to  identify  himself  with  contradictory 
interests.  Since  tragedy,  then,  deals  with  action,  and 
action  of  the  most  serious  kind,  let  us  say  that  the  func- 
tion of  tragedy  is  to  present  moral  situations  and  prob- 
lems. It  is  not  necessary  that  a  work  of  art  should  try 
to  solve  these  problems,  and  indeed  the  tragic  cases  are 
just  those  in  which  we  can  see  no  solution.  The  value 
of  the  drama  for  moral  development  does  not  rest  in 
pointing  out  what  one  ought  to  do,  but  in  warning  us  of 
certain  possible  situations,  and  also  in  cultivating  in  us 
the  spectator's  attitude.  This  stimulates  reflection  upon 
important  questions  at  a  time  when  the  spectator  is  not 
personally  involved  in  them;  and  moralists  tell  us  that  to 
sit  down  in  "  a  calm  hour  "  or  to  take  the  attitude  of  the 
"  disinterested  spectator  "  toward  our  own  problems  is 
the  only  way  to  an  intelligent  and  right  decision. 

The  Nature  and  Use  of  Comedy.  The  conflict  of 
interests  in  comedy  is  not  so  serious  and  not  so  insoluble 
as  in  the  tragic  drama.  Comedy  usually  means  a  play 
with  amusing  incidents  and  characters  and  a  plot  with  a 
happy  ending.  A  struggle  there  must  be,  and  often  a 
lively  one.  Cause  and  effect  must  also  be  apparent  in 
the  action,  though,  as  is  sometimes  said,  this  is  not  so 
imperative  as  in  the  tragedy.  Puffer  says,  in  distinguish- 
ing tragedy  from  comedy:*  "When  two  aims  are  abso- 
lutely irreconcilable,  and  when  the  forces  tending  to  them 
are  important,  —  that  is,  powerful,  —  there  must  be  some- 

*  Op.  cit. 


COMEDY  279 

where  destruction,  and  we  have  tragedy.  When  they  are 
reconcilable,  if  they  are  important,  we  have  serious 
comedy;  when  not  important  or  not  envisaged  as  impor- 
tant, we  have  light  comedy." 

On  the  scope  and  nature  of  comedy  we  may  quote  from 
Meredith  in  "  The  Egoist."  He  says:  "  Comedy  is  a  game 
played  to  throw  reflections  upon  social  life,  and  it  deals 
with  human  nature  in  the  drawing-room  of  civihzed  men 
and  women,  where  we  have  no  dust  of  the  struggling 
outer  world,  no  mire,  no  violent  crashes"  .  .  .  And:  "She 
(Comedy)  it  is  who  proposes  the  correcting  of  pretentious- 
ness, of  inflation,  of  dullness,  and  of  the  vestiges  of  raw- 
ness and  grossness  yet  to  be  found  among  us.  She  is  the 
ultimate  civilizcr,  the  jjolishcr,  a  sweet  cook."  Also, 
in  his  "  Essay  on  Comedy,"  he  says  that  whenever  men 
"wax  out  of  proportion,  overblown,  affected,  pretentious, 
bombastical,  hypocritical,  pedantic,  fastantically  delicate; 
whenever  it  (the  comic  spirit)  sees  them  self-deceived 
or  hoodw-inked,  given  to  run  riot  in  idolatries,  drifting 
into  vanities,  congregating  in  absurdities,  planning  short- 
sightedly, plotting  dementedly,"  then  the  comic  spirit  has 
at  them. 

The  enjoyment  of  comedy  is  evidently  very  different 
from  the  enjoyment  of  tragedy  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
the  two  have  many  of  their  points  of  excellence  in  common. 
For  in  comedy  we  do  not  see  human  nature  in  extreme 
distress,  but  only  in  some  vexatious  tangle  or  ridiculous 
scrape.  Most  of  us  are  hardhearted  enough  to  take 
pleasure  in  the  spectacle  of  our  fellow  mortals  struggling 
with  a  not-too-bitter  embarrassment.  The  fun  of  it  is 
to  see  them  put  through  their  paces,  and  to  know  what 


280  THE   DRAMA 

their  mettle  is.  The  final  value  of  comedy  is  that  it,  too, 
like  tragedy,  discovers  to  us  problems  and  situations,  and 
this  enriches  our  imagery  of  life.  When  we  have  seen 
these  things  on  the  stage  we  are  able  afterward  to  see 
them  in  the  world  about  us  (some  of  them,  that  is)  and 
to  catch  the  dramatic  element  in  our  daily  experiences. 
The  drama  gives  us  the  hint.  Thus,  if  the  drama  is  in 
some  degree  an  imitation  of  life,  life  is  often,  also,  an 
imitation  of  the  drama. 

Some  Dramatic  Conventions.  A  play  is  primarily 
intended,  not  to  be  read,  but  rather  enacted  before  an 
audience  by  a  group  of  persons  on  a  stage.  This  kind 
of  occasion  makes  certain  technical  demands,  and  calls 
for  many  conventional  distortions  of  real  life.  The 
play  is  by  no  means  a  literal  imitation  of  actual  happen- 
ings On  the  stage  people  must  speak  in  a  more  finished 
way  than  in  real  life,  often,  indeed,  in  verse.  They  must 
carry  on  their  reflections  aloud  in  clear,  resonant  tones, 
to  let  the  audience  know  what  is  being  thought.  They 
must  make  decisions  promptly,  take  journeys,  and  fight 
battles  with  incredible  rapidity  and  do  a  hundred  things 
unnaturally  because  a  play  so  demands.  Take  the  ex- 
ample of  writing  a  letter  on  the  stage.  We  have  heard 
some  spectator  comment  that  "No  one  could  possibly  write 
a  letter  in  that  time."  But  no  one  wants  to  wait  while 
the  actor  does  actually  set  down  the  words  he  pretends  to 
write;  it  would  make  an  undramatic  break  in  the  signifi- 
cant action,  and  therefore  to  shorten  the  time  is  a  proper 
convention.  It  is  like  blurring  an  unimportant  detail 
in  a  picture  in  order  to  let  the  important  thing  shine 
out.     The  technique  of  play-writing  requires  not  only  the 


DRAMATIC    CONVENTIONS  28 1 

dramatic  idea  or  action  to  be  presented,  and  the  literary 
skill  to  present  it,  but  also  a  compreiiensive  knowledge 
of  practical  stage  business.  The  play  is,  in  a  sense,  a 
series  of  pictorial  compositions;  much  of  the  acting  takes 
place  in  a  single  plane  so  as  to  be  clearly  visible  to  the 
spectators.  This  means  that  stage  setting,  the  business 
of  entrances  and  exits,  etc.,  are  essential  elements  of  the 
dramatic  medium. 

Among  the  more  intellectual  conventions  of  dramatic 
form  we  shall  mention  only  the  general  law  of  balance 
and  the  law  of  complication  and  resolution.  We  may 
say  of  a  play  what  Spencer  says  of  conduct,  — that  it  is 
to  be  conceived  as  a  moving  equilibrium.  The  two  chief 
forces  or  "sides"  in  a  dramatic  conflict  should  claim 
attention  with  something  like  regular  alternation.  In 
order  to  realize  the  progress  of  the  struggle  the  contrib- 
uting interests  must  both  be  kept  in  mind.  The 
principle  of  "contending  sides"  is  as  important  in  a 
play  as  the  principle  of  balance  and  symmetry  in  a 
pictorial  composition.  Of  course  the  problem  of  balance 
appears  in  many  different  forms  in  a  play;  as,  balance 
of  acts,  of  scenes,  of  characters.  The  dialogue  is  itself 
balanced,  no  one  person  being  allowed  to  talk  at  very 
great  length  while  others  are  on  the  stage.  Not  only 
must  this  equilibrium  be  kept  u|),  but  it  must  be  a 
moving  equilibrium,  i.e.,  one  in  which  the  constituent 
forces  become  more  and  more  involved  (rising  action) 
until  they  reach  a  maximal  point  (climax),  and  then  be- 
come disentangled  (falling  action),  until  peace,  — either 
of  destruction  or  of  harmony, —  is  regained.  This  law, 
too,  is  apparent  in  the  several  parts  of  the  play.     The 


282  THE   DRAMA 

main  plot,  the  sub-plot,  and  every  act  and  scene  has  its 
rising  and  falling  action,  and  shows  itself  a  moving 
equilibrium. 

Character  and  Action.  With  the  Greeks  the  most 
important  consideration  in  the  drama  was  the  structure 
of  the  plot.  Action  was  their  first  thought,  and  charac- 
ters, at  most,  secondary.  With  the  Teutonic  races,  on 
the  contrary,  the  chief  interest  settles  rather  in  character 
or  personality.  This  differing  emphasis  is  consonant 
with  the  philosophic  attitude  of  the  ancient  as  against 
that  of  the  modern  world.  The  Greeks  were  interested 
in  the  objective  order  of  things,  and  hence  in  the  overt 
acts  of  their  heroes  rather  than  in  their  fancies  and 
feelings  and  characters.  The  modern  world  places  a 
higher  value  on  the  subjective  order  of  things,  and  is 
accustomed  to  think  of  character  and  intention  as  the 
ultimately  significant.  Yet  upon  reflection  we  must 
see  that  in  real  life  action  and  character  are  inseparable 
conceptions;  they  are  merely  the  outer  and  inner  view  of 
precisely  the  same  thing.  The  true  meaning  of  character 
lies  in  action;  that  is,  character  may  be  defined  as  a 
disposition  to  act  in  certain  ways.  The  true  meaning  of 
an  action  also  lies  in  the  character  which  performs  it; 
that  is,  we  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  the  physical 
overt  act  until  the  intention  which  it  expresses  has  been 
revealed.  In  a  play  we  ought  to  find  that  the  action  is 
the  result  of  having  such  and  such  characters,  and  also 
that  the  characters  are  affected  by  being  involved  in 
such  an  action.  In  Shakespeare's  plays  the  characters 
are  completely  revealed  in  the  action  and  they  completely 
illuminate  the  action.     Like  the  supreme  artist  in  any 


CHARACTER   AND   ACTION  283 

field,  the  dramatist  should  see  that  the  spiritual  meaning, 
in  this  case  the  characters,  is  completely  expressed  in 
the  form,  in  this  case  the  action.  For  we  may  regard 
overt  action  as  the  formal  aspect  of  life,  and  character 
as  its  inner  meaning. 

Reading  References 

FreytaG"   "Technique  of  the  Drama  " 

Everett:   "Poetry,  Comedy  and  Duty." 

Woodbridgk:   "The  Drama,  Its  Law  and  Its  Technique." 

Meredith:  "An  Essay  on  Comedy." 

Jones:  "The  Renascence  of  the  English  Drama." 

Puffer:  "The  Psychology  of  Beauty,"  Chap  vii. 


CHAPTER    XVII 
PROSE   FORMS 

"Poetry  glides  swiftly  down  the  stream  of  a  flowing 
and  familiar  river,"  Harrison  writes,'  "  where  the  banks 
are  always  tiiC  helmsman's  guide.  Prose  puts  forth 
its  lonely  skiff  upon  a  boundless  sea."  That  is  to  say, 
the  verse  form  or  pattern  in  poetry  is  something  fixed 
upon  and  maintained  throughout  a  poem  as  a  limit  and 
guide.  In  prose  there  is  no  such  definite  guide,  and  this 
freedom  from  limits  is  one  thing  that  makes  it  so  hard 
to  write  good  prose.  The  writer  must  find  some  limits 
of  his  own,  some  characteristic  manner  or  system  of 
choosing  and  arranging  his  words.  Instead  of  pattern 
he  develops  prose  style. 

On  Style.  Style,  as  a  characteristic  manner,  is  not 
a  purely  verbal  matter,  but  apphes  to  the  thought  and 
words  together.  A  man  writes  dramatically  because  he 
sees  things  and  thinks  things  dramatically;  or  he  writes 
pictorially,  or  reflectively,  etc.,  because  that  is  the  style  of 
his  thought.  As  a  general  statement  this  is  true,  though 
there  are  exceptions  to  it. 

When  we  advise  with  books  on  rhetoric  we  learn  that 

the   requisites  of    good   writing  include  economy,  force 

and    clearness.     "  Let   us  then   inquire,"    says    Spencer, 

"  whether  economy  of  the  recipient's  attention  is  not  the 

^secret  of  effect,  alike  in  the  right  choice  and  collocation 

'  "  On  English  Prose." 
?84 


CLEARNESS  285 

of  words,  in  the  best  arrangement  of  clauses  in  a  sentence, 
in  the  proper  order  of  its  principal  and  subordinate  prop- 
ositions, in  the  judicious  use  of  simile,  metaphor  and 
other  figures  of  speech,  and  even  in  the  rhythmical  se- 
quence of  syllables." 

Force  is  another  excellence  of  style  closely  associated 
with  economy.  Economy  of  style  is  one  of  the  chief 
sources  of  its  strength  and  incisiveness;  for  when  unnec- 
essary parts  are  clea.ed  away  the  salient  elements  are 
so  much  the  more  striking.  Conversely,  it  is  true  that 
force  is  one  of  the  surest  means  to  economy;  for  a  thing 
strikingly  said  need  not  be  reinforced  by  elaboration. 

According  to  some  authorities  the  first  and  great 
requirement  of  style  is  clearness.  What,  then,  is  it  to 
be  clear?  Logically  speaking,  I  suppose  a  statement 
would  be  clear  if  it  conveyed  to  the  mind  of  the  hearer 
exactly  the  same  logical  meaning  which  it  had  for  the 
speaker.  Now,  if  we  wanted  to  prove  that  a  certain 
statement  were  clear,  we  should  have,  according  to  this, 
to  refer  both  to  the  speaker  and  the  hearer,  —  perhaps 
asking  each  to  paraphrase  the  statement  and  compare 
the  results.  This,  however,  would  be  a  logical,  not  an 
esthetic  test.  A  sentence  which  is  esthetically  "  clear  " 
does  not  require  a  reference  to  the  author  of  it.  Es- 
thetically speaking,  it  is  enough  if  a  sentence  conveys  a 
definite,  unambiguous  meaning  to  the  hearer.  The 
hearer  may  possibly  find  in  it  something  finer  and  more 
significant  than  the  speaker  had  himself  thought  of,  but 
for  artistic  purposes  we  would  not  therefore  call  the  sen- 
tence unclear.  In  other  words,  clearness  as  a  category 
of  art  criticism  refers  to  the  work  of  art  itself;  it  has  to 


286  PROSE    FORMS 

do  with  face  values.  We  should  speak  of  "  clear  "  lan- 
guage just  as  we  would  speak  of  a  clear  linear  design,  or 
a  clear  melody,  meaning  one  which  was  distinct  and 
unambiguous. 

Given  force,  economy  and  clearness,  there  is  still 
something  lacking  to  perfect  beauty  of  style,  and  that  is 
individual  character.  Style  must  have  not  merely  formal 
excellence  but  personal  expressiveness  and  characteristic 
quality. 

Some,  further  rules  of  style  say  that  in  the  English 
language  the  words  of  Saxon  origin  are,  on  the  whole,  to 
be  preferred  to  the  Latin  derivatives;  also  that  concrete  are 
more  effective  than  abstract  terms.  But  such  statements 
are  only  meant  to  quell  the  extravagant  use  of  abstract 
and  Latin  terms.  There  is  nothing  intrinsically  unlovely 
in  long  Latin  derivatives  nor  in  abstract  terms;  many 
of  them  are  delightful  to  the  ear.  There  is  nothing  low 
in  wishing  to  fill  up  a  sentence  with  fine  polysyllables. 
Indeed,  the  beginning  of  style  is  a  love  of  words  and 
phrases  for  their  own  sake.  It  is  perfectly  safe  to  like 
the  big  words,  if  you  like  the  little  words  too.  As  for 
abstract  terms,  they  are  frequently  more  pleasing  as  well 
as  more  exact  than  the  concrete.  Spencer  gives  the 
following  illustrations  in  support  of  the  contrary  view. 
He  says  that  we  should  avoid  such  sentences  as: 

"In  proportion  as  the  manners,  customs  and  amusements  of  a 
nation  are  cruel  and  barbarous,  the  regulations  of  their  penal  code 
will  be  severe," 

and  in  place  of  it  we  should  write: 

"In  proportion  as  men  delight  in  battles,  bull-fights  and  combats 
of  gladiators,  will  they  punish  by  hanging,  burning  and  the  rack." 


PROSE    RHYTHM  28/ 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  Spencer  has  improved 
this  sentence  by  the  change.  The  first  form  is  perfectly 
clear  and  forceful,  and,  perhaps,  in  better  taste  than  the 
second.  The  danger  of  being  too  abstract  is  no  worse 
than  the  danger  of  being  sensational  and  absurd. 

Sensuous  Beauty  in  Prose.  Aside  from  the  beauty 
of  individual  words,  —  words  full  of  liquid  and  vowel 
sounds,  —  the  principal  sources  of  sensuous  pleasure  in 
prose  are  rhythm  and  assonance.  The  rhythms  of  prose 
are  less  strictly  measured  than  those  of  poetry  and  music, 
but  they  are  no  less  essential  to  good  composition.  The 
rhythms  of  prose,  being  free  and  individual,  do  not  lend 
themselves  to  classification  so  easily  as  the  poetic  rhythms. 
The  four  examples  given  below  show  rhythms  charac- 
teristic of  certain  acknowledged  masters  of  style.  The 
first  tw^o  from  Sir  Thomas  Browne: 

"  Every  man  is  not  a  proper  champion  for  truth  nor  fit  to  take  up 
the  gauntlet  in  the  cause  of  verity:  many,  from  the  ignorance  of 
these  maxims,  and  an  inconsiderate  zeal  unto  truth,  have  too  rashly 
charged  the  troops  of  error,  and  remain  as  trophies  unto  the  enemies 
of  truth." 

"Wise  Egj'pt,  prodigal  of  her  embalmments,  wrapped  up  her 
princes  and  great  commanders  in  aromatical  folds,  and,  studiously 
extracting  from  corruptible  bodies  their  corruption,  ambitiously 
looked  forward  to  immortality;  from  which  vainglory  we  have 
become  acquainted  with  many  remnants  of  the  old  world,  who 
could  discourse  unto  us  of  the  great  things  of  yore,  and  tell  us 
strange  tales  of  the  sons  of  Mizraim,  and  ancient  braveries  of 
Egypt." 

Not  every  man  could  use  such  rolling  polysyllables,  but 
with  him  they  have  a  majestic  dignity  and  grace.  His 
rhythms  are  stately  and  large,  with    something   almost 


288  PROSE   FORMS 

orchestral  about  them.  In  the  following  passage,  from 
Pater's  essay  on  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  there  is  another 
rhythm,  more  even  and  quiet  than  Browne's,  but  sharing 
something  of  the  same  chanting  quality: 

"From  his  earliest  years  he  designed  many  objects,  and  con- 
structed models  in  relief,  of  which  Vasari  mentions  some  of  women 
smiling.  His  father,  pondering  over  this  promise  in  the  child, 
took  him  to  the  workshop  of  Andrea  del  Verrocchio,  then  the  most 
famous  artist  in  Florence.  Beautiful  objects  lay  about  there  — 
reliquaries,  pyxes,  silver  images  for  the  pope's  chapel  at  Rome, 
strange  fancy-work  of  the  middle  age,  keeping  odd  company  with 
fragments  of  antiquity,  then  but  lately  discovered.  Another  student 
Leonardo  may  have  seen  there  —  a  boy  into  whose  soul  the  level 
light  and  aerial  illusions  of  Italian  sunsets  had  passed,  in  after  days 
famous  as  Perugino." 

The  phrases  in  this  passage  give  a  little  the  effect  of 
ebbing  away  or  trailing  off  in  a  series  of  echoes.  Pater 
seems  to  abhor  a  climax,  so  he  lets  the  qualifying 
words  and  phrases  float  on  like  an  after-thought.  In 
the  first  sentence  of  the  above  quotation  he  might  have 
come  to  a  stop  after  the  word  "  objects,"  and  again  after 
"relief,"  or  after  "some"  or  "women."  So  far  as  struct- 
ure goes,  here  are  four  places  where  he  might  have  ended. 
Rhetorically  such  sentences  would  be  called  loose  in 
structure;  they  have  certainly  the  grace  which  comes  of 
relaxation,  and  which  is  too  often  wanting  in  the  tense, 
closely  knit  periodic  sentence.  To  these  loose  sentences 
are  due,  in  part  at  least,  the  atmosphere  of  chosen  stillness 
and  reverie  which  marks  his  style. 

In  contrast  with  Pater's  rhythm  stand  some  of  the 
■cumulative  intensities  of  Ruskin's  style;  this,  for  example, 


PROSE    RHYTHM  289 

"It  is  this  untraceable,  unconnected,  yet  perpetual  form — this 
fullness  of  character  absorbed  in  the  universal  energy  —  which 
distinguished  nature  and  Turner  from  all  their  imitators.  To  roll 
a  volume  of  smoke  before  the  wind,  to  indicate  motion  or  violence 
by  monotonous  similarity  of  line  and  direction,  is  for  the  multitude; 
but  to  mark  the  independent  passion,  the  tumultuous  separate 
existence  of  every  wreath  of  writhing  vapor,  vet  swept  away  and 
overpowered  by  one  omnipotence  of  storm,  and  thus  to  bid  us 

'  Be  as  a  Presence  or  a  motion  —  one 
Among  the  many  there  —  while  the  mists 
Flying,  and  rainy  vapors,  call  out  shapes 
And  phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth, 
As  fast  as  a  musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument,'  — 

this  belongs  only  to  nature  and  to  him." 

This  passage  screws  us  to  an  ever  higher  tension,  until 
after  the  lengthened  suspense  of  his  quotation  we  are 
finally  brought,  more  or  less  intact,  to  the  climax.  Other 
rhythms  and  other  writers  might  be  mentioned,  but 
these  are  enough  to  show  how  important  a  place  rhythm 
has  in  prose  style. 

The  other  chief  source  of  sensuous  j)leasure  in  prose 
is  assonance.  It  serves  tlic  same  purpose  here  as  in 
poetry,  —  to  give  a  kind  of  tonal  unity  or  harmony.  A 
notable  illustration  occurs  in  the  passage  just  quoted 
from  Pater, — not  assonance  in  the  strictest  definition  of 
that  term,  but  similarities  of  sound.  Thus  the  ni^s  and 
n'5  predominate  in  that  phrase  "mentions  some  of  women 
smiling,"  and  the  short  i  sounds  in  "  reliquaries,  pyxes, 
silver  images."  Almost  too  liquid  is  "  level  light  and 
-serial  illusions  of  Italian  sunsets." 


290  PROSE    FORMS 

Prose  as  the  Medium  of  Thought.  If  poetry  is  pre- 
eminently tlie  language  of  emotion,  prose  is  certainly 
the  medium  for  the  exact  rendering  of  ideas,  though 
prose,  too,  if  it  is  to  be  considered  artistic,  must  be  capable 
of  expressing  emotion.  Scientific  prose  must  be  literal, 
precise  and  exhaustive;  its  object  is  to  inform.  But  in 
literary  prose  we  look  for  general  impressions  rather  than 
exhaustive  details.  Also  a  freer  use  of  figures  is  permitted; 
rich  and  varied  comparisons,  metaphors,  allegories, 
personifications,  are  the  legitimate  means  for  giving 
emphasis  to  one's  thought.  The  whole  purpose  of 
literature  is  different  from  that  of  science,  since  it  aims 
not  so  much  to  instruct  as  to  suggest,  and  not  so  much 
to  give  facts  as  to  ofifer  some  valuation  of  facts.  The  two 
principal  forms  of  literary  prose  are  the  novel  and  the 
essay.  The  former  is  more  suited  to  the  reproduction  of 
concrete  human  situations,  and  the  latter  to  the  expres- 
sion of  abstract  ideas  and  general  reflections  or  impres- 
sions of  life. 

The  Novel.  The  novel,  like  the  drama,  has  as  its 
chief  problem  the  working  out  of  plot  and  character. 
The  manner  in  which  this  is  done  is  very  different. 
The  most  obvious  differences  of  form  are  these.  The 
novel  is  a  serial  narrative,  only  one  thing  being  told  at  a 
time,  whereas  the  drama  often  shows  several  incidents 
happening  simultaneously.  We  can  see  things  happen- 
ing at  the  same  time,  but  we  cannot  read  them  so.  The 
drama  is  all  in  dialogue,  or  at  least  all  the  lines  are 
spoken  by  the  persons  of  the  play,  whereas  the  novel 
is  compounded  of  description,  narration,  exposition, 
indirect  discourse  and  dialogue.     The  novel  makes  no 


THE   NOVEL  291 

such  direct  sensuous  appeal  as  the  play,  but  it  claims 
attention  for  a  longer  time. 

These  differences  in  form  react  inevitably  upon  the 
content  of  the  drama  and  the  novel,  they  tend  to  make  a 
difference  in  the  kind  of  plot  and  character  chosen  for 
presentation.  Some  novels,  of  course,  can  be  successfully 
dramatized,  but  many  of  the  best  cannot.  In  some  of 
these  the  characters  are  shown  as  gradually  developing 
through  a  period  of  years,  and  the  process  of  growth  is 
not  a  dramatic  one.  In  oLher  novels  the  action  may  oc- 
cupy a  relatively  short  time,  but  is  in  its  nature  essentially 
undramatic.  Jane  Austen's  novels  are  of  this  type,  so 
are  Henry  James's.  Even  the  rapid  and  overt  actions 
of  many  novels  of  adventure  are  not  for  the  stage.  As  for 
the  characters,  there  are  many  in  real  life  who  do  not  re- 
veal themselves  in  stageable  actions,  but  whose  thoughts, 
"hardly  to  be  packed  into  a  narrow  act,"  are  the  most 
characteristic  things  about  them.  This  type  is  available 
only  for  the  novel.  The  novel,  then,  with  its  serial  form 
and  rather  reflective  content,  may  be  said  to  spread  life 
out  so  that  we  may  take  it  slowly  and  comprehensively; 
whereas  the  drama  condenses  it  so  that  we  may  take  it 
quickly  and  incisively.  The  drama  is  strong  in  the 
sensuous  impact  of  its  action;  the  novel,  in  that  its  action 
is  accompanied  and  filled  in  with  reflection  and  analysis. 
The  drama  is  more  vivid  and  the  novel  more  exact. 

The  sources  of  effect  are  so  widely  varied  in  the  novel 
that  they  are  used  to  determine  different  types,  as  the 
novel  of  character,  of  manners,  of  social  problems,  the 
novel  of  adventure,  or  of  philosophy,  the  historical  and 
the  descriptive  novel,  etc.    Symons  has  indeed  questioned 


292  PROSE    FORMS 

whether  its  very  fullness  of  matter  may  not  render  the 
novel  incapable  of  perfect  artistic  form.^  "Human  life 
and  human  manners  are  too  various,  too  moving,  to  be 
brought  into  the  fixity  of  a  quite  formal  order." 

The  novel,  we  said,  is  exact.  It  has  even  been  used, 
as  with  Zola,  as  the  vehicle  for  scientifically  exact  obser- 
vations, but  such  practice  is  extreme,  and  distorts  the 
novel  from  the  uses  of  art.  As  a  criticism  of  such  a 
conception  of  the  novel,  we  may  quote  Symons's  comment 
on  Zola:^ 

"The  art  of  Zola  is  based  on  certain  theories,  on  a 
view  of  humanity  which  he  has  adopted  as  his  formula. 
As  a  deduction  from  his  formula,  he  takes  many  things 
in  human  nature  for  granted,  he  is  content  to  observe 
at  second-hand;  and  it  is  only  when  he  comes  to  the 
fiUing-up  of  his  outlines,  the  mise-en-scene ,  that  his 
observation  becomes  personal,  minute  and  persistent. 
He  has  thus  succeeded  in  being  at  once  unreal  where 
reality  is  most  essential,  and  tediously  real  where  a  point- 
by-point  reality  is  sometimes  unimportant." 

The  novel,  with  Balzac,  is  commonly  the  history  of 
a  dominant  passion;  in  "The  Quest  of  the  Absolute"  it  is 
the  passion  of  research,  in  Catharine  de  Medici,  the  love 
of  power,  in  Goriot,  paternal  love,  in  Grandet,  avarice, 
etc.,  etc.  This  ruling  emotion  is  expressed  and  recorded 
in  the  action  of  the  novel.  Thus  Balzac's  works,  more, 
perhaps,  than  those  of  any  other  novelist,  fulfil  that  for- 
mula of  art  which  calls  it  an  objectification  of  emotion. 

The  Essay.  The  essay  is  a  discourse  which  centers 
upon  some  particular  topic,  often  abstract  in  its  nature. 
'  "  Studies  in  Prose  and  Verse."  ^  Id. 


THE    ESSAY  293 

Its  advantage  lies  in  its  directness  and  simplicity;  the 
writer  need  not  be  at  pains  to  hunt  up  characters,  or 
invent  situations  and  plots  and  all  the  paraphernalia  of 
a  fictitious  setting,  but  he  may  speak  out  in  his  own 
character  and  tell  us  plainly  what  he  is  thinking.  On 
the  other  hand,  this  very  directness  may  sometimes  be 
a  disadvantage;  for,  in  eliminating  characters,  narrative 
and  description,  the  essay  seems  to  be  leaving  art  with  all 
its  wings  clipped.  Now  the  philosophical  essay  is  prob- 
ably the  least  sensuous  of  any  literary  product;  hence  we 
may  assume  that,  if  it  can  show  elements  of  artistic  form, 
the  essay  in  general  is  vindicated. 

Not  only  is  beauty  of  rhythm  and  assonance  possible 
in  the  philosophical  essay,  but  the  systematic  develop- 
ment of  the  thought  itself  may  follow  artistic  conventions. 
There  must  be  introductions,  complications,  expositions, 
elaborations,  climaxes  and  conclusions;  part  balanced 
against  part  and  point  against  point.  Thought  itself  does 
not  occur  to  us  in  a  formless  wad;  it  always  has  some 
hint  of  plot,  and  it  often  proceeds  as  in  a  dialogue. 
Thought,  however  abstruse,  is  never  absolutely  wanting 
in  form,  and  hence  never  is  wholly  outside  the  pale  of 
artistic  arrangement. 

One  may  naturally  ask  whether  a  philosophical  essay 
is  any  more  fit  to  be  a  work  of  art  than  a  scientific  essay 
is.  I  think  we  should  be  justified  in  answering  yes. 
Philosophy  deals  with  general  conceptions  of  life  rather 
than  with  specific  facts;  its  effect  is  suggestive  and  stim- 
ulative rather  than  literally  instructive.  Its  truth  must 
often  be  grasped  sympathetically  rather  than  by  proof. 
It  sets  oroblems  rather  than  solves  them.     Its  subject- 


294  PROSE   FORMS 

matter  seems,  therefore,  more  congenial  to  literary  treat- 
ment than  the  subject-matter  of  science;  and  the  fact 
that  philosophy  is  sometimes  tedious  reading  is  the  fault 
of  philosophers,   not   of  philosophy. 

Reading  References 

Spencer:  "Philosophy  of  Style." 
Pater:   "An  Essay  on  Style." 
Stevenson:   "Style  in  Literature." 
Harrison:   "On  English  Prose." 
Symons:   "Studies  in  Prose  and  Verse." 
Lewes:  "Principles  of  Success  in  Literature." 


CHAPTER    XVTII 

THE   GENERAL   CONCEPTION   OF   BEAUTY   AND 
ART 

The  esthetic  experience,  as  we  have  seen,  appears  under 
a  great  variety  of  objective  conditions.  Every  distinct 
branch  of  art  presents  important  differences  of  objective 
condition,  and,  indeed,  every  individual  work  of  art  gives 
a  unique  modification  to  the  esthetic  experience.  And 
yet  it  is  possible  to  find  some  points  of  agreement  in  all 
these  types  of  experience,  some  items  of  similarity  in  all 
these  so  dissimilar  beautiful  objects.  An  apprehension  of 
these  items  constitutes  our  general  conception  of  beauty. 
Before  commenting  on  this  general  conception  we  must, 
however,  speak  of  two  kinds  of  experience  which  are 
properly  to  be  considered  esthetic,  but  whose  objects  have 
not  always  been  included  under  the  strict  definition  of 
beauty.  These  are  the  sublime  and  the  comic.  There 
are  elements  in  the  comic,  and  in  the  sublime  also,  which 
do  not  well  agree  with  the  formal  and  classical  concep- 
tion of  beauty,  but,  since  they  are  admitted  by  other  views 
on  beauty,  it  is  in  place  to  give  here  some  brief  account 
of  their  nature. 

The  Nature  of  the  Sublime.  Burke,  in  his  treatise  on  the 
Sublime  and  the  Beautiful,  makes  this  distinction,  —  that 
the  enjoyment  of  beauty  is  founded  on  our  enjoyment  of 
things  which  give  pleasure,  whereas  the  enjoyment  of 
sublimity  is  founded  on  the  enjoyment  of  things  which 

295 


296   GENERAL  CONCEPTION  OF  BEAUTY  AND  ART 

inspire  fear  and  awe,  things  which  remind  us  of  pain  and 
danger.  Kant  also  opposed  the  sublime  and  the  beau- 
tiful, finding  that  the  sublime  makes  its  appeal  less  on  the 
formal,  sensuous,  objective  side  than  on  the  subjective 
and  intellectual  side.  It  is  very  generally  agreed  that 
the  objective  condition  of  the  sublime  includes  magni- 
tude, whether  this  refer  to  vastness  of  spatial  extent,  or 
to  time  duration,  or  to  greatness  of  physical  or  moral 
power.  Certain  spectacles  in  nature,  as  well  as  some 
architectural  products,  give  this  impression  of  overwhelm- 
ing size,  power  and  duration.  We  get  a  similar  impres- 
sion of  moral  power  from  some  tragedy.  The  observer's 
reaction  is  sometimes  described  as  one  of  fear  and  admi- 
ration, sometimes  as  one  of  heightened  sense  of  power 
as  the  observer  feels  himself  rising  to  sympathetic  appre- 
ciation of  the  sublime  object.  These  two  moments, 
though  strongly  contrasted,  are  not  incompatible.  It 
seems,  in  truth,  as  if  the  first  thrill  of  fear  were  a  neces- 
sary condition  for  the  later  feeling  of  elation  as  one 
identifies  oneself  with  the  object.  Modern  writers  tend 
to  include  these  elements  of  vastness,  grandeur  and 
power  under  the  conception  of  beauty.  Power  or 
strength  is  an  important  part  of  the  characteristic,  which 
for  modern  theory  is  much  if  not  all  of  beauty. 

The  Nature  of  the  Comic.  Some  writers  are  of  the 
opinion  that  experiences  of  the  comic  cannot  be  reduced 
to  any  one  descriptive  or  explanatory  formula.  Those, 
however,  who  believe  that  this  can  be  done,  have  empha- 
sized, some  one,  some  another,  of  the  following  points. 
Subjectively  the  experience  is  usually  found  to  be  a 
pleasurable  one   accompanied   by  smiling  or  laughing. 


NATURE    OF    THR    COMIC  297 

There  is  a  transition  from  one  thing  to  some  contrasted 
thing,  involving, perhaps,  a  "descending  incongruity,"  and 
accom])anied  by  some  sense  of  relief.  Kant  said,  "  Laugh- 
ter is  an  affection  arising  from  a  sudden  transfor- 
mation of  a  strained  expectation  into  nothing."  There 
must  be  something  new  or  sudden  in  the  perception,  and, 
according  to  some,  there  must  be  a  feeling  of  superiority 
or  "  sudden  glory  "  on  the  part  of  the  observer.  In  the 
case  of  humor,  as  distinct  from  wit,  the  observer's  feeling 
is  tempered  by  an  underlying  sympathy  with  the  comic 
obi'ecl.  Objectively  the  comic  presents  some  contrast 
or  incongruil}-. 

Martin  has  made  an  important  experimental  research 
on  the  comic.  She  used  as  material  a  series  of  comic 
[jicturcs.  These  were  observed  under  controlled  con- 
ditions, the  subjects  ranking  each  picture  on  its  amu.^ing 
character,  and  recording  their  introspections.  She  found 
a  ratiier  general  tendency  toward  imitative  movements, 
which  enhanced  the  appreciation  of  the  pictures.  A 
smiling  face  in  a  picture  often  made  the  subjects  smile 
or  laugh  and  then  judge  the  picture  as  "  funny,"  Thus, 
in  James's  i)hrase,  1  hey  were  pleased  becausethey  laughed. 
Other  important  elements  in  the  comic  experience  were 
found  to  be  novelty,  i)leasure,  contrast,  sometimes  asso- 
ciations, and  sometimes  a  feeling  of  superiorit}.  The 
ex|)erimenter  finally  offered  to  sixty  subjects  a  state- 
ment of  the  principal  theories  of  the  comic,  and  asked 
them  to  examine  a  given  picture  and  to  name  the  theory 
whicii  seemed  best  to  explain  their  experience  of  the 
picture.  Schopenhauer's  theory  was  named  oftenest 
(fifteen    times).     Two    subjects   then    worked    through 


298       GENERAL    CONCEPTION    OE    Bi;Al'rV    AND    Ak'l" 

sixteen  ])icturcs,  comparin<j;  their  experiences  with  the 
theories.  Schopenhauer's  was  the  onl}-  theor\-  found 
applicable  by  both  subjects  to  all  the  pictures.  His 
theory  reads:'  "The  source  of  the  ludicrous  is  always 
the  paradoxical,  and  therefore  the  unexpected,  sub- 
sumption  of  an  object  under  a  conception  which  in  other 
respects  is  different  from  it,  and  accordingly,  the  phe- 
nomenon of  laughter  always  signifies  the  sudden  appre- 
hension of  an  incongruity  between  such  a  conception 
and  the  real  object  tliought  under  it,  thus  between  the 
abstract  and  the  concrete  object  of  perception." 

The  range  of  the  comic  is  not,  of  course,  limited  to  one 
field  of  esthetic  effect;  we  fmd  it  in  the  dance,  in  music, 
in  the  visual  arts,  and  in  literature,  especially  in  the 
drama.  One  of  the  chief  sources  of  comic  effect,  n.imely, 
the  sudden  or  naive  revelation  of  human  character,  is  at 
its  best  in  the  drama. 

The  Classical  Conception  of  Beauty.  Beaul\  may  be 
said  to  depend  upon  symmetry,  bajajice,  rhythm,  regular- 
ity, proportion,  or,  in  brief,  the  manifestation  of  some 
unity  or  law  in  the  midst  of  variety.  This  is  the  classical 
conception.  It  lays  stress  on  the  formal  or  objective 
aspect  of  beauty,  and  tends  to  emphasize  the  importance 
of  the  general  nature  of  the  art-medium  and  its  limits 
rather  than  the  feeling  to  be  expressed.  Something 
permanently  perfect  is  its  aim.  In  esthetics  the  term 
classical  is  used  as  a  descrii)ti\e  term,  and  does  not 
mean  that  the  object  so  named  is  better  or  worse  than 
others.  The  conception  is  best  understood  b}'  naming 
some   of   the    concrete    works    MJiich    exemplify   it.     In 

'   "The  Woiiil  as  Will  and  Idea." 


CLASSICAL   AND    ROMANTIC    IDEAS  299 

architecture  the  Greek  temple  is  classic,  not  because  the 
Greeks  built  it,  but  because  it  shows  regularity,  complete 
finish  in  details,  perfect  balance  and  unity.  In  music 
the  work  of  Mozart  is  classic  with  its  regard  for  purity 
of  harmony  and  precision  of  form.  In  the  dance  it  is 
the  gymnastic  element  which  is  more  allied  to  the  classic 
spirit.  In  the  drama  the  classic  emphasis  is  on  plot  rather 
than  on  character.  In  English  poetry  Dryden  and  Pope, 
and,  in  English  prose,  Addison,  are  examples  of  classical 
spirit.  The  best  works  of  art  of  the  classical  sort  have 
what  McColl  would  designate  as  the  "Olympian"  qual- 
ity; they  express  repose,  perfection,  and,  above  all,  the 
reign  of  law. 

The  Romantic  Conception.  The  romantic  idea  of 
beauty  emphasizes  the  subjective  and  emotional  side  of 
it.  The  chief  excellence  of  a  work  of  art,  on  this  theory, 
is  its  expressiveness,  and  the  idea  is  that  the  artist  should 
be  allowed  absolute  freedom  from  tradition  in  order  that 
his  personal  feeling,  not  tradition,  may  govern  the  form 
of  his  work.  The  artist  of  this  faith  aims,  not  at  the 
perfect,  but  at  the  interesting.  Among  works  of  art 
showing  the  romantic  disposition  are  Wagner's  operas, 
the  paintings  of  Delacroix  and  of  many  landscape  artists, 
the  poetry  of  Byron,  the  prose  of  Victor  Hugo.  The 
"romantic  movement"  was  a  reaction  against  modern 
classicism,  and  began  in  the  eighteenth  century,  but  the 
romantic  tendency  in  art  is  not  confined  to  this  period. 
It  is  never,  indeed,  wholly  absent  from  any  period  of 
artistic  production,  though  sometimes  greatly  over- 
shadowed. Pater  has  shown,  for  example,  that  there 
was  a  strain  of  the  romantic  in  the  Greek  temperament 


300   GENERAL  CONCEPTION  OF  BEAUTY  AND  ART 

and  in  Greek  art,  though  we  are  accustomed  to  think  of 
the  classical  as  predominating.  In  connection  with  the 
romantic  movement  there  appeared  the  doctrine  of  the 
"characteristic,"  though  this  conception  of  art  is  not 
identical  with  the  romantic  view. 

The  Realistic  Conception.  Realism  in  art  is  the 
attempt  to  portray  things  as  they  "really"  are.  It  is 
opposed  to  the  extravagant  and  overdrawn  products 
which  romanticism  sometimes  shows.  It  is  also  more 
objective  and  impersonal  than  romantic  art.  But  the 
"real"  often  turns  out  to  mean  the  literal,  even  pedantic, 
transcription  of  minute  items  of  experience,  and  in  this 
devotion  to  particulars  rather  than  to  universals  it 
shades  around  toward  romanticism.  In  choosing  to  por- 
tray certain  narrowly  limited  aspects  of  life,  the  realists 
have  been  in  danger  of  as  great  extravagance  as  the  most 
wilful  romancer.  Realism  as  a  criterion  of  art  or  a  con- 
ception of  beauty  is  wholly  inadequate;  it  merely  means 
the  imitative  element  in  art  pushed  to  the  extreme. 

The  Conception  of  Character  and  the  Characteristic. 
Character,  we  think  of,  as  that  which  marks  off  a  person 
(or  an  object)  as  different  from  others.  It  is  that  which 
distinguishes.  But  at  the  same  time  it  is  something 
which  is  regularly  present  in  that  person  or  thing,  and 
hence  is  a  typical  or  common  element  in  our  experience 
of  that  person  or  thing.  Character  as  a  distinguishing 
mark  is  a  guarantee  of  individuality  or  of  variation  from 
the  ordinary.  In  popular  use  a  "character"  is  an 
eccentric  person.  On  the  other  hand,  character  indi- 
cates that  which  is  constant,  typical  or  representative. 
We  say  that  one  has  a  hasty  or  a  deliberative  character, 


THE   CHARACTERISTIC  3OI 

meaning  that  under  given  circumstances  he  habitually 
responds  in  certain  ways.  To  say  without  specification 
that  a  person  has  "character"  is  to  say  that  certain  of  his 
habits  have  fixity  or  strength,  tJiat  he  can  be  relied  upon. 
Character  has  thus  two  aspects:  from  the  point  of  view 
of  a  social  group  it  is  individual  and  a  variation,  but 
from  the  point  of  view  of  the  individual  it  is  generic  or  a 
constant.  Similarly  we  might  speak  of  the  character 
of  a  nation,  and  this  would  be  something  individual  if  we 
compared  it  with  the  peculiarities  of  other  nations,  but 
something  generic  if  we  thought  of  a  great  many  different 
persons  of  that  nation  as  exemplifying  it. 

The  characteristic  is  that  which  pertains  to  the  esseiiz— 
tial  jiaturg_of  a  thing  and  reveals  ks  character.  The  1 
"characteristic"  was  first  proposed  as  a  necessary  prin- 
ciple of  art  by  Goethe  in  an  early  essay  in  defense  of 
Gothic  architecture.  "Gothic"  in  that  day  was  the 
synonym  of  barbarous,  disorderly,  overloaded,  tasteless, 
because  it  was  unlike  the  classic  building  of  the  ancients. 
But  Goethe,  impressed  as  he  was  by  a  visit  to  Strasburg 
cathedral,  sought  to  justify  his  emotion  on  the  theoretical 
side  by  enlarging  his  conception  of  beauty.  Goethe 
teaches  that  beauty  is  to  be  gained  by  a  combination 
of  the  elements  of  formal  regularity  with  the  element 
of  characterization.  The  characteristic  alone,  Goethe 
thought,  might  be  ugly,  but  when  united  with  decorative 
grace  it  became  the  highest  beauty. 

The  characteristic  is  really  wide  enough,  however,  to 
include  both  classical  and  romantic  tendencies.  There 
can  be  no  character  without  harmony,  regularity  or 
subjection   to  law,   just   as  there  can  be   no  character 


302   GENERAL  CONCEPTION  OF  BEAUTY  AND  ART 

without  freedom  and  individuality.  The  work  of  art 
must  embody  both  these  tendencies  (though  it  may  do  so 
with  varying  emphases),  but  the  conception  of  the  charac- 
teristic is  also  wide  enough  to  express  both  these  ten- 
dencies. As  for  concrete  works  we  may  say  that  both 
the  Greek  temple  and  the  Gothic  cathedral  are  character- 
istic, both  Mozart  and  Wagner,  both  Pope' and  Byron. 
Selection  and  Limitation.  The  process  which  makes 
a  work  of  art  characteristic  is  the  process  of  selection 
and  its  consequent,  rejection.  In  melody  we  saw  that  the 
tones,  however  pleasing  in  themselves,  which  obscured 
the  outlines  of  the  tune,  were  out  of  place,  and  in  painting 
we  saw  that  the  details  of  a  picture,  however  pretty  or 
accurate,  which  drew  attention  away  from  the  main  idea, 
were  wrong.  To  choose,  and  then  stand  by  one's  choice, 
is  the  necessary  thing.  Ruskin  calls  it  the  law  of  sacri- 
fice, and  it  means  real  sacrifice  because  the  artist  has  to 
reject,  not  merely  the  ugly  or  indifferent,  but  the  attractive 
and  pleasant  which  happens  to  be  irrelevant  to  what 
he  has  chosen.  "Definite  limitation"  was  named  by 
Aristotle  as  one  of  the  conditions  of  beauty,  along  with 
order  and  symmetry.  In  this  conception  of  the  limited 
or  finite  the  Greeks  touched  one  of  the  phases  of  what  we 
call  the  "  distinct "  or  characteristic.  (The  term  "  infinite  " 
was  a  tfrm  of  disparagement  with  the  Greeks;  it  meant 
to  them  something  vague  or  "indefinite,"  rather  than 
"infinite"  in  the  modern  sense.  Hence  to  call  a  thing 
finite  or  limited  would  be  a  term  of  praise.)  The 
artistic  reward  for  selecting  and  limiting  one's  material 
is  the  added  clearness,  strength  and  perfection  which  can 
be   gained   within   the   limits   set.     Decorative   art   if  it 


LIFE   AS   AN   ART  303 

surrenders  the  third  dimension,  gains  in  clearness  of 
design,  boldness  of  contrasts,  freedom  in  the  use  of  color. 
Sculpture  surrenders  color  and  gains  in  the  emphasis 
on  pure  form.  Music  limits  the  tones  in  its  scale  and 
gains  in  clearness  of  structure.  Each  art,  indeed,  is 
founded  on  a  set  of  limits  by  the  very  fact  that  it  has  a 
special  medium.  Good  artistic  work  demands  the  recog- 
nition and  perfect  acceptance  of  those  limits. 

Life  as  a  Work  of  Art.  "The  art  of  living  is  the 
supreme  art,"  writes  Mabie,  "because  it  presents  the 
widest  range  of  material,  and  the  most  varied,  delicate 
and  enduring  forms  of  activity."  It  behooves  us  to 
inquire  whether  there  is  more  than  a  general  analogy 
between  life  and  the  work  of  art,  whether  the  same  laws 
hold  of  both,  and  also  whether  one  is  justified  in  saying 
that  the  range  and  variety  of  life  is  greater  than  that  of  art. 

Beginning  with  the  last  question,  I  should  answer 
in  the  negative.  The  person  who  is  arranging  his  life 
as  a  work  of  art  does  so  in  the  light  of  the  experience 
which  he  has  drawn  from  many  sources.  But  the  person 
who  works  in  marble,  or  pigment  or  musical  tone  is  also 
putting  the  result  of  his  experience  into  his  work  of  art, 
and  there  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  have  as  wide  a 
range  to  draw  from  as  the  other.  They  may  both  have 
the  same  range  of  opportunity,  the  same  experience  of 
life,  but  they  express  themselves  in  different  ways.  This 
brings  up  the  question  of  the  medium  of  life  as  a  work 
of  art. 

Every  art  that  we  have  studied  has  a  certain  advantage 
over  the  art  of  life,  namely,  that  each  of  the  arts, —  of 
sculpture,  music,  etc., —  has  a  clearly  defined  medium.    It 


304   GENERAL  CONCEPTION  OF  BEAUTY  AND  ART 

has  fixed  limits  or  definite  data  which  any  one  immediately 
recognizes,  and  which  act  as  inflexible  guides  to  the  artist 
himself.  If,  now,  we  are  going  to  take  life  seriously  as  a 
work  of  art,  we  must  discover  the  set  of  conditions  which 
can  be  regarded  as  its  peculiar  medium.  The  artist 
finds  himself  living  in  a  certain  environment.  He  has 
certain  physical  and  mental  endowments,  and  he  finds 
that  he  has  grown  up  into  certain  social  obligations  and 
limits.  Now  the  modern  social  organization  tends, 
as  we  know,  to  the  differentiation  of  activities,  and  the 
specialization  of  types  or  persons,  and  the  person  who 
chooses  an  occupation,  therefore,  finds  himself  involved 
in  a  still  more  special  environment.  This  person,  then, 
who  has  consciously  limited  his  activity  to  a  certain 
field,  as  by  the  choice  of  a  vocation,  has  taken  the  first 
step  toward  making  his  career  into  a  work  of  art;  for 
by  so  doing  he  has  accepted  a  definite  medium  through 
which  he  may  express  what  is  in  him.  Given,  then,  the 
vocation  or  type  of  activity  as  the  medium,  and  the 
person  who  has  chosen  it  as  the  artist,  in  what  way  can 
he  objectify  and  express  himself  in  his  career? 

If  he  is  of  the  temperament  to  follow  the  classical  ideal, 
he  will  attempt  to  put  into  his  life  order,  proportion, 
symmetry,  balance,  perfection  of  detail.  He  will  be 
prudent,  deliberative,  reasonable.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  conceives  life  romantically,  he  will  wish  to  render  it 
expressive,  and  will  therefore  be  more  likely  to  trust 
to  instinct  and  enthusiasm,  more  likely  to  take  risks,  and 
to  fail  or  to  succeed  signally.  The  aim  of  those  who  live 
tastefully  will  be  always  to  achieve  something  character- 
istic.    They  will  not  live  too  much  in  detail,  like  the 


LIFE   AS   AN   ART  305 

realists,  but  broadly  and  suggestively.  They  will  be 
typical  in  following  to  some  extent  the  traditions  of  their 
class  or  profession,  but  individual  and  personal  in  recog- 
nizing and  responding  to  special  situations. 

Among  concrete  instances  of  characteristic  persons 
we  may  take  Martin  Luther  and  Cardinal  Newman. 
Each  was  religious,  each  sincere,  each  was  a  characteristic 
personality  working  out  a  significant  career.  Each  shows 
a  temperament  which  acts  as  a  unifying  principle  amid 
the  striking  contrasts  of  his  career.  Each  was  artistic 
because  he  found  and  accepted  the  situation  which 
emphasized  his  type  and  expressed  his  temperament. 
To  perceive  one's  type  and  to  work  it  out  consistently 
is  the  whole  formula.  Too  many  persons  accept  their 
ideals  from  others,  or  else  choose  items  of  excellence 
from  too  many  different  sources.  In  the  one  case  a 
purely  imitative  character  is  likely  to  be  developed,  and, 
in  the  other,  a  kind  of  rococo  personality  which  attempts 
to  combine  the  excellences  of  incompatible  types.  Con- 
fusions of  type  are  as  undesirable  in  life  as  they  are  in  art. 
No  one  would  wish  to  see  gargoyles  crawling  over  a  Greek 
temple,  and  for  the  same  reason  no  one  could  wish  to 
learn  that  George  Washington,  for  example,  tried  to  tell 
anecdotes  in  the  manner  of  Lincoln.  It  would  be 
equally  disturbing  to  hear  that  Lincoln  excelled  in 
stepping  the  minuet.  One  would  not  want  Jane  Austen 
to  take  up  the  sword,  nor  Joan  of  Arc  to  write  a  novel  of 
manners.  Each  of  them  is  entirely  perfect,  but  their 
mixture  would  be  grotesque.  To  lose  such  distinctions, 
and  to  confuse  or  blend  such  types,  is  to  take  the  meaning 
out  of  life. 


306   GENERAL  CONCEPTION  OF  BEAUTY  AND  ART 

Art  and  Conduct.  In  the  last  paragraph  it  was  said 
that  life  could  be  looked  upon  and  treated  as  a  work  of 
art,  that  the  conceptions  of  art  apply  to  life.  To  the  artist, 
indeed,  his  art  is  his  life,  and  the  categories  and  points 
of  view  which  art  develops  are  those  with  which  he 
habitually  looks  on  all  phases  of  experience.  But  it  is 
also  true  that  in  our  discussion  of  the  special  arts  we  kept 
explaining  their  values  in  terms  of  life.  We  referred 
constantly  to  the  processes  of  our  own  organism,  i.e.,  to 
organic  and  muscular  rhythms  and  to  imitative  activities 
as  the  ground  of  the  meaning  of  the  work  of  art.  We 
seemed  to  regard  our  own  selves  and  bodies  as  the  terms 
of  final  reference.  In  the  drama  it  seems  particularly 
clear  that  art  is  judged  by  the  categories  of  life  and  con- 
duct. It  is  no  less  true  that  every  art  shows  a  special 
organization  of  life,  and  is  to  be  judged  in  terms  of  life. 
Art  and  life,  therefore,  may  each  serve  as  a  standpoint 
from  which  to  criticize  the  other. 

In  trying  to  define  a  little  better  the  likeness  and  the 
difference  between  art  and  life,  one  is  struck  first  by  the 
similarity  of  their  ideals.  The  ideals  of  life  I  assume  to  be 
the  same  thing  as  the  ethical  ideals  or  the  ideals  of  con- 
duct. Now  ethical  theories  fall  quite  generally  into  two 
types —  the  perfectionist  and  the  hedonist.  One  empha- 
sizes the  striving  for  perfection  of  character,  a  character 
which  shall  show  the  virtues  in  complete  adjustment  to 
one  another,  and  which  represents  order,  proportion, 
balance,  and,  above  all,  amenability  to  law.  The  other 
type  of  theory  emphasizes  the  importance  of  personal 
feeling;  pleasure  and  satisfaction  are  its  aim.  The  per- 
fectionist pays  most  regard  to  the  form  of  the  activity, 


ART   AND    CONDUCT  ^0^ 

the  hedonist  to  the  content  of  it,  that  is^  to  what  the 
activity  signifies  or  brings  with  it.  I  think  the  analogy 
of  these  types  of  ethical  theory  with  the  classical  and 
romantic  conceptions  of  beauty  respectively  is  a  close  one. 
In  esthetic  theory,  again,  we  find  the  notion  of  the 
characteristic,  and,  as  the  analogue  of  this  in  ethical 
theory,  we  have  the  notion  of  self-realization.  Self-real- 
ization means  the  working  out  of  a  self  which  is  strong 
and  distinctive,  one  which  is  obedient  to  laws,  but  laws 
of  its  own  being.  This  theory  recognizes  the  values  of. 
both  perfectionist  and  hedonist,  just  as  the  characteristic 
recognizes  the  values  of  both  the  classical  and  romantic 
types  of  beauty.  So  far  as  ideals  alone  are  concerned, 
I  fail  to  see  any  difiference  between  the  ultimate  ideals 
of  art  and  the  ultimate  ideals  of  conduct. 

What  is  it,  then,  that  makes  the  difference  between 
art  and  life,  and  how  shall  we  place  them  in  reference  to 
each  other?  Let  us  begin  to  answer  this  question  by 
turning  back  to  the  philosophy  of  Kant. 

The  most  vital  problems  of  modern  thought  were 
focused  and  defined  by  Kant  in  his  three  Critiques. 
He  had,  as  his  general  problem,  to  try  to  reconcile  the 
claims  of  the  doctrine  of  free-will  with  the  doctrine  of 
natural  law.  In  the  "Critique  of  Pure  Reason"  he  con- 
cludes that  we  cannot  think  of  anything  in  the  universe 
except  as  being  under  the  dominion  of  natural  law. 
This  is  the  only  form  in  which  anything  can  reach  the 
understanding.  Nature  or  necessity  holds  good  abso- 
lutely, and  to  the  cognitive  faculties  there  is  no  proof  of 
any  freedom  or  spontaneity  in  the  world.  Conduct,  there- 
fore, seems  to  be  determined  by  natural  law.     In  the 


308   GENERAL  CONCEPTION  OF  BEAUTY  AND  ART 

"Critique  of  Practical  Reason"  he  dwells  upon  the  need 
for  believing  in  freedom.  In  order  to  live  rationally 
and  sanely,  he  concludes,  we  must  make  some  assump- 
tions which  we  cannot  prove,  and  among  these  things 
in  which  we  have  an  unproved  faith  are  the  existence 
of  God,  freedom  and  immortality.  We  act  as  if  we 
could  prove  their  validity.  Practically  we  feel  and  con- 
clude that  the  human  spirit,  not  merely  necessity,  rules 
human  conduct.  To  reconcile  this  anthesis  of  nature 
and  freedom  Kant  drew  upon  the  esthetic  experience. 
In  esthetic  judgment  we  perceive  the  rational  in  the 
sensuous,  that  is,  sense-impressions  as  determined  by 
natural  law  are  completely  reconciled  with  reason  or  the 
spiritual  law.  Beauty  is  both  sensuous  and  rational. 
Subsequent  theories  varied  from  Kant  in  other  ways,  but 
they  all  seem  to  agree  that  art  "does  something"  for  hfe 
in  the  way  of  ameliorating  its  contradictions.  This  is 
expressed  in  different  ways,  as  the  manifestation  of  idea 
to  sense,  or  the  absorption  of  subject  in  object,  or  the 
harmonizing  of  life  tendencies.  These  phrases  are  not 
equivalents  at  all,  but  they  each  indicate  the  alleviating 
character  of  art. 

Now  there  is,  perhaps,  no  happier  way  of  expressing 
what  art  does  for  life  than  to  say,  in  the  phrase  of  Henry 
James,  that  art  is  "  the  image  of  life." 

"The  Image  of  Life."  The  relationship  of  art  to  life 
would  really  be,  according  to  this  notion,  the  relationship 
of  image  to  experience.  Art,  we  should  all  admit,  gets  its 
meaning  from  life,  and  life  finds  in  art  the  sensuous 
forms  or  imagery  of  its  meanings  and  ideals.  This  idea 
would  harmonize  perfectly  with  the  idea  of  beauty  as  a 


ART   AND   LIFE  309 

reconciliation;  for  we  know  from  psychology  that  the 
instrument  for  the  readjustment  of  contradictory  ten- 
dencies is  the  image. 

Keeping  to  the  problem  of  conduct  as  the  central  prob- 
lem of  life,  let  us  ask  by  what  imagery  some  of  it  is 
carried  on.  To  the  Greeks  the  problem  of  conduct  was 
one  of  balance.  Every  virtue,  Aristotle  conceived,  is  a 
mean  between  two  extremes.  Justice,  which  is  probably 
the  most  comprehensive  of  the  virtues,  comes  back  very 
strikingly,  I  think,  to  the  imagery  of  symmetry  and 
balance.  Moral  regularity  we  often  think  of  under  the 
guise  of  some  sensuously  thinkable  order  or  regularity. 
The  problem  of  practical  morality  is  the  problem  of 
seeing  virtue  under  an  attractive  image.  We  can,  of 
course,  prove  the  social  necessity  of  virtue,  and  can  grasp 
ethical  values  as  reasoned  conclusions,  but  I  do  not  think 
we  can  act  virtuously  until  we  see  some  beauty  in  it. 
This  is  not  saying  that  we  are  an  immoral  lot,  but  only 
that  beauty  is  an  essential  aspect  of  the  ethical  ideal. 
It  is  that  which  is  immediately  felt  and  which  gives  the 
stimulative  power  to  the  ideal. 

The  relationship  of  art  to  life  we  may  finally  express 
in  terms  of  imagination  and  experience.  The  material 
of  imagination  comes  from  experience,  that  is,  the  image 
in  its  reproductive  phase  copies  experience.  But  the 
constructive  image  is  no  longer  a  copy,  but  a  creation,  and 
then  it  is  experience  which  follows  or  copies  from  imag- 
ination. So  it  is  with  art  and  life;  each  takes  its  turn  as 
leader  of  the  other,  and  life  could  no  more  spare  art  in  the 
wide  sense  of  that  term  than  art  could  spare  life. 


INDEX 


\ction,  reflex,  34;  and  music,  133; 
in  design,  192;  in  drama,  282. 

Adaptation,  in  design,  193. 

Affection,  ch.  Ill,  I. 

Allen,  144,  148 

Amphibrachic  measure,  80-81. 

Anapestic  measure,  80-81. 

Angell,  F.,  246. 

Angell,  J.  R.,  38,  143- 

Answer,  question  and,  in  music, 
121;  in  design,  186-187. 

Architecture,  ch.  XI. 

Aristotle,  58,  273,  277,  302,  309. 

Arne,  118,  139. 

Arnold,  259. 

Art,  relation  to  esthetics,  2;  origins 
and  functions  of,  ch.  IV;  art- 
impulse,  57ff.;  general  concep- 
tion of,  ch.  XVIII;  and  conduct, 
306  (T. 

Ashley,  156. 

Assonance,  268,  289. 

Awramoff,  73,  77. 

Bach,  128,  135. 

Baker,  145,  150. 

Balance,  in  dancing,  102;  of  colors, 
153,  155;  symmetry,  185;  of  in- 
terest, 187;  axial  balance,  189;  in 
drama,  281. 

Baldwin,  58,  144. 

Ballad,  the,  250. 

Balzac,  44,  292. 


Bain,  15-16. 

Barber,  151. 

Batchelder,  155,  176. 

Beardsley,  177. 

Beattie,  14. 

Beauty,  ch.   I;  general  conception 

of,  ch.  XVIII. 
Beethoven,  135,  137. 
Berenson,  94,  239. 
Birdwood,  178. 
Bolton,  70,  72,  78.         .     i  ,• 
Brahms,  1 19-120. 
Broad  style.  234. 
Browne,  287. 
Biicher,  46,  55,  78,  80. 
Buck,  247. 
BuUough,  145. 
Burke,  185,  295. 
Burne- Jones,  162,  169. 
Burns,  256,  260. 
Byron,  259,  299. 
Byzantine  architecture,  209. 

Catharine  de  Medici,  44,  92, 
Character,  in  music,  138;  of  colors, 

i45fT.;    of   lines  and    forms,  ch. 

IX;  in  portraiture,   235-236;  in 

drama,   282;  general  conception 

of,  300. 
Characteristic,  the,  30off. 
Chown,  151. 
Church,  ritual,  94;  music,  119, 124- 

125. 


311 


312 


INDEX 


Classical     conception    of    beauty, 

298-299. 
Cohn,  144-145. 
Coleridge,  81. 
Color,  ch.  VIII. 
Comedy,  278!!. 
Comic,  the,  296ff. 
Composition,    in    music,    121;    in 

painting,  232. 
Conduct,  and  art,  3o6ff. 
Consonance,  109,  130. 
Corroborry,  the,  88. 
Crane,  170,  177,  187,  197. 
Curves,  1695. 

Dabney,  258. 

Dactylic  measure,  80-81,  258-259. 

Dance,  the,  ch.  VI;  and  war,  48; 

and  music,   119;  and  sculpture, 

213- 
Darwin,  37,  217,  223. 
Decorative  design,  176-177. 
Delacroix,  144,  299. 
Design,  ch.  X. 
Dewey,  39,  173. 

Disinterested,  esthetic  value  is,  60. 
Dissonance,  109,  130. 
Dobson,  261. 
Drama,   the,   ch.   XVI;   compared 

with  novel,  290-291. 
Dryden,  266,  299. 

Egyptian  architecture,  206. 
Emerson,  L.  E.,  113. 
Emmanuel,  91. 
Emotion,  ch.  Ill,  2;  and  auditory 

imagery,  12;  and  rhythm,  76;  in 

sculpture,  222if, 
Epic,  the,  253. 
Essay,  the,  292flF. 


Esthetic  senses,  I7ff.;  conscious- 
ness, disinterested,  60;  immedi- 
ate, 61;  universal,  62. 

Esthetics,  definition,  I;  relation  to 
art  and  science,  2;  to  criticism,  3; 
to  psychology,  3;  purpose  and 
methods  of,  5-6. 

Experiment  in  esthetics,  6. 

Expressiveness,  in  the  dance,  85;  in 
music,  13  iff. ;  in  architecture, 
i98ff.;  in  sculpture,  222ff.;  ro- 
mantic conception  of  beauty,  299. 

Fechner,  168,  190. 
Feeling,  ch.  III. 
Fere,   146. 
Fillmore,  105. 
Flournoy,  100. 
Folk-music,  122-123,  ^3^- 

Galton,  27. 

Gavotte,  the,  96. 

Goethe,  301. 

Golden  section,  168. 

Goldsmith,  247. 

Gothic      architecture,      200,    205, 

2ioff.,  301. 
Greek  dancing,   9off.;   tetrachord, 

113;  architecture,  205,  207-208, 

299. 
Grey,  65. 
Groos,  63,  172. 

Grosse,  50,  53,  65,  87,  88,  89,  105 
Gummere,  250. 
Guyau,  34. 

Harmony,  1273. 
Harrison,  284. 
Haydn,  121-122,  132. 
Hearn,  149,  236. 


INDEX 


313 


Hegel,  17,  66,  195. 
Helmholtz,  109,  132,  134. 
Henley,  26. 
Herbert,  255,  263. 
Hildebrand,  218,  220. 
Hirn,  32,  57,  58. 
Hogarth,  170. 
Hokusai's  wave,  25,  190. 
Holmes,  17S. 
Honery,  65. 
Hood,  261. 

Hunting,  relation  to  art,  49. 
Hurst,  and  MacKay,  81. 

Iambic  measure,  79,  257. 

Idea,  and  image,  19. 

Illusions,  in  rhythm,  79;  optical, 
191-192. 

Images,  types  of,  8-17;  function  of, 
19-22,  309. 

Imagination,  ch.  II. 

Imitation,  36,  45,  136. 

Immediate,  esthetic  value  is,  61. 

Impulse,  36-37;  conflict  of  im- 
pulses, 39ff.;  art-impulse,  57ff. 

Industry,  related  to  art,  49. 

Ingelovv,  256. 

Instinct,  34ff. 

James,  H.,  308. 

James,  W.,  38-39,  44,  75.  i73- 

Jastrow,  174. 

Jones,  276. 

Judgment,  esthetic,  62. 

Kant,  296,  297,  307-308. 
Katharsis,  277. 
Keats,  3,  252,  269. 
Kirschmann,  151,  230. 
Kiiipe,  223. 


Landscape,  relation  to  architecture, 

204-205;  in  painting,  237ff. 
Language  as  an  art-medium,  ch. 

XIV. 
Lanier,  262. 
Laocoon,  216-217. 
Lay,  12,  19. 

Lee,  and  Thompson,  146,  173,  238. 
Leonardo,  236. 
Lessing,  216-217,  225. 
Lewis,  264. 
Limitation,  302. 
Lines,    vertical,     160;    horizontal, 

162;  diagonal,  163;  circular,  169; 

serpentine,  170. 
Lipps,  63,  172. 
Longfellow,  259. 
Liibke,  197,  206. 
Ludicrous,  the,  see  the  Comic. 
Lyric,  the,  25 iff. 

Mabic,  303. 

Macdougall,  71,  73. 

Mackail,  248. 

MacKay,  Hurst  and,  81. 

Magic,  49'  S^- 

Major,  145. 

Marshall,  58. 

Martin,  297. 

McColl,  221,  232,  299. 

Melody,  i2iff. 

Meredith,  23,  26,  248,  275,  279. 

Methods  of  esthetics,  5. 

Meumann,  81. 

Meyer,  106,  112,  113,  116. 

Michelangelo,  217,  220,  225. 

Milton,  255,  257,  264. 

Miner,  12,  70,  71,  75. 

Minuet,  the,  96. 

Moore,  203,  205,  210. 


314 


INDEX 


Miiller,  and  Schumann,  74. 
Mumford,  178. 
Music,  ch.  VII. 

National  dances,  99. 

Nature,  primitive  attitude  toward, 

52-53- 
Novel,  the,  sgoff. 

Objective,  esthetic  value  is,  62. 
Omar  Khayyam,  24,  267,  269. 
Opposition,  principle  of,  in  dancing, 

102. 
Optical  illusions,  191-192. 

Pain,  nature  and  function  of,  30- 

32;  in  art,  34. 
Painting,  ch.  XIII;  compared  with 

sculpture,  228. 
Palestrina,  126. 
Parry,  118,  123. 

Pater,  21,  225,  240,  288-289,  299. 
Pavan,  the,  96. 
Pierce,  153,  188. 
Play,  instinct,  35-36;  art  as,  57. 
Pleasantness,  function  of,  ^t,. 
Pleasure,  esthetic,  34. 
Poe,  253-254,  270. 
Poetry,  ch.  XV. 
Polyphony,  i25ff. 
Poore,  332-233. 
Portrait  painting,  235. 
Positions,  the  five,  loi. 
Primitive  art,  46fT.;  dances,  88ff.; 

music,  105,  134;  design,  178,  186. 
Prose,  ch.  XVII. 
Psychology,  and  esthetics,  3,  5. 
Puffer,  133,  145,  153,  161,  166,  187, 

193,  278. 


Question  and  answer,  in  music, 
121;  in  design,  186-187. 

Religious  rites,  and  art,  51. 

Repetition,  in  primitive  melody, 
121;  in  design,  i79£f.;  in  poetry, 
268. 

Repose,  in  design,  192;  in  sculp- 
ture, 225-226. 

Reznicek,  86. 

Rhyme,  26$S. 

Rhythm,  ch.  V.;  in  primitive  art, 
54;  in  music,  ii7fT.;  in  design, 
i82fT.;  in  poetry,  2553.;  in  prose, 
2873. 

Ribot,  10,  14,  17. 

Rodin,  164,  217,  220. 

Romantic  conception  of  art,  299. 

Rood,  158. 

Ross,  155,  176,  182,  189. 

Rossetti,  52,  147. 

Rowland,  180-181. 

Ruskin,  34,  149,  157,  165,  169,  198, 
202,  208,  209,  211,  230,  288-289, 
302. 

Santayana,  89. 

Sargent's  prophet,  91. 

Scales,  in  music,   ii2ff.;  in  color, 

23off. 
Schiller,  57. 

Schopenhauer,  297-298. 
Schubert,  129,  131. 
Schumann,  F.,  Miiller  and,  74. 
Schumann,  R.,  14. 
Scott,  258. 
Sculpture,  ch.  XII.;  related  to  the 

dance,  213;  to  architecture,  221; 

to  painting,  228. 
Senses,  the  esthetic,  17. 


!\!)i;X 


315 


Serpentine,  dame,  S6;  line,  170. 
Shakespeare,    2(\    258,    260,    26S, 

282. 
Shcllt-y,   10,  2(1,  256,  257. 
Simmel,  241. 
Smith,  74. 

Spanisli  dancing,  97ff. 
Spencer,  53,  57,  281,  284,  286. 
Squire,  70. 
Statham,  198,  202. 
Stetson,  75,  267. 
Stratlon,  i7r. 
StruU,  85. 
Siumpf,   log. 
Stvie,  in  prose,  2S4ff. 
Sublime,  llie.  21)5. 
Suggestion,  fonc  of,  5^ 
Sully,   )6(). 

Swinburne,  259,  260,  262,  aCx). 
Svmmelry,   1S5. 
Svnions,  2C)T,  2()2. 

Tempos,  esihetii   \aliK-  of,  7^111. 
Tennyson,  248,  257,  258,  2()0,  2O;, 

266,  268. 
Thompson,  T.eeaml,  1  ]<>,  ijp,,  2,;8. 
Tonality,  iislf. 
Tone,  physical  basis  of,  ro6ff. 
Tragedy,  273ff. 


Triangular  comix)sition,  166. 
Trochaic  measure,  79,  2550". 
Turner,  24,  149,  231. 

Universal,  esthetic  value  is,  62. 
Unpleasantness,  32;  funt  tion  of,  33; 
in  art,  33    u- 

\'alue,  esthetic ,  60,  61;  color  \alues, 

154- 
\'an  Dvke,  I'rof.,   11,  154. 

Wiillier,  ii\. 

Wagner,   1  :;i,   137,  2gt). 

Wailasrhek,   106. 

War,  and  art,  48. 

\\'ar-s<)iiL(:s,  ])rimitivc  and  modern, 

65. 
Watts,  24.S. 
Whistler,   1O5.  242. 
Winckelmann,  225. 
Wilmer,   iSo,   184. 
Woodbi-rrv,  270. 
Woodbridge,   274. 
Wordsworth,  248,  257. 
Wumlt,  70,  74.  76. 

Zeising,  16S. 
Zola,  292. 


FFB  13  1980 

DATE  DUE 

CAYLORD 

PRINTCO  IN  U.S.*.. 

N66  G6 

Gordon,  Kate,  18  78- 

Esthetics , 


UC  SOUThERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000  144  119    5 


